Resonance
by sheshakes
Summary: When Meg Giry gives Christine the Phantom's mask, she has no idea that she has set in motion a chain of events that will inevitably bring Mademoiselle Daaé and the haunting man who loved her face to face. Eventual EC based on 2004 film.
1. Le Façade

**Chapter One: The Mask**

He could still feel the touch of her lips, the stain of their last contact indelible and all consuming in its innocence. The feeling held to his mouth like the taste of citrus, pungent and inescapable, mocking him as he concealed himself from his pursuers in the bowels of the once grand Opera Populaire. The saline flow of his tears was not enough to wash away the taste of her mouth, regardless of their constancy or desperation.

_ It is in your soul that the true distortion lies. _

As unavoidable as her brand on his lips, her words seared in his ears now, filling his chest with an ache that brought him to his knees in the dust of his cavernous lodgings. It had been two weeks now and the intensity of what marks Christine had left on his ill-conceived life had not lessened. The passion of his hatred for her was only surpassed by the violence of his love.

Pathetic. Wiping a black-gloved hand across his lips, Erik pulled himself from the floor, roughly brushing the dirt that clung to his knees. "Pathetic. One would think she was there, standing before you, for all the pain you allow her mere memory to inflict," he thought bitterly, disgusted with his own inherent weakness. But forgetting her was akin to forgetting his own name – no amount of time or energy could wipe his mind free of Christine.

Scoffing at his own overblown penchant for the melodramatic, Erik glanced over his dimly lit domain. He had spent days shrouding his hideous face in robes, avoiding the glances of curious strangers and all too familiar faces before he could sum up the resolve to disappear beneath the Opera once again. When he had finally returned, the destruction born of his rage presented itself before him: the Opera Populaire charred and empty and his home in its basement ransacked, stripped of anything of assumed value and left dark and echoing with the voices of those who came to kill him. He could scarcely contain his regret and outrage as he sifted through what was left of his belongings, searching for the white mask – his only true ally.

His thoughts were circular and haphazard, jumping through the past months at random but always returning to her face, the look in her brown eyes as she turned to glance behind as Raoul guided the boat away from his dark lair. As he slowly restored his home, Erik burned what material remained of her. The wedding veil, the dry rose petals torn underfoot, the endless array of charcoal sketches boasting her beautiful visage fell to flame before his eyes. And still no sign of his mask.

Two weeks after the Opera Populaire had ignited in roaring flames, Christine was still in Paris, the closely watched houseguest of Raoul. "Or captive", Christine mused, staring through the fine white curtains of the window at the bustling street below. Raoul was so anxious to protect her that she was beginning to suffer in the stuffy splendor of his vast Parisian estate. The de Chagny residence was large, but she found herself gasping for air even in its grand parlors and dining halls.

Everywhere she went his voice lingered like the distant ringing of a silver bell in her mind, a resonant and mournful sound. Trying desperately to drown out the insistent tones, she clung to the windowsill, allowing the frantic sounds of Paris to fill her ears. But it was still there – that haunting echo.

_Christine, I love you…_

Standing with a start, she smashed her hand down on the sill, savoring the pain of the impact that spread through her joints up her quivering forearm. Staring at her smarting palm, the miserable girl found she had no pity for herself. Instead, her conscious offered only shame, hot and unrelenting.

"Christine, darling, what happened?"

Whipping around, her heart jumped and then stilled as she saw Raoul, expression frantic and fastidious clothes unusually disheveled as he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. His blue eyes were wide with fear as he quickly rushed to her side, always the rescuing hero.

"Oh don't fuss. I just slipped as I was getting up and caught myself on the windowsill. Nothing to worry about," she explained, sliding her sore hand across his shoulder in an attempt to calm his overly anxious nerves.

"Oh God, I thought –," he started, biting his own lip in a boyish gesture of apprehension.

"We have to move on, Raoul. He's a figment of the past, an apparition. You can't keep glancing back like this, looking for demons in the shadows. He's gone. And I'm here," she stated, her voice catching almost inaudibly on the words.

"He's gone," her mind sang, the sound joining the constant ringing of his voice in her head. He's gone. A dull ache behind her eyes startled her and Christine turned from Raoul to again face the busy streets of Paris, blurred through the gossamer curtains. Pausing for a moment, she nervously slid her fingers over one another, fingering the lavish diamond engagement ring Raoul had given her, the digits visibly shaking and her palm still inflamed.

"Raoul, may I see Meg? I need the female company…" Turning to see the look of slight hesitation in his eyes, she offered playfully, "It gets so lonely around here with just _you_ to entertain me." Smiling now, the displeasure fading with her jest, Raoul chuckled fondly, nodding slightly as if humoring the silly wishes of a child.

* * *

Smiling jovially, Meg Giry rushed into the room and the arms of her friend, clasping her tightly in both arms before pulling back to fret over Christine's fine clothing.

"Don't worry Meg - they all get wrinkled before the end of the day anyway. I just can't stand to sit still in this house," she said, grinning as her friend's worried look returned to an expression of easy warmth. Sitting down in the extravagant chaise set out for her, Meg glanced from Christine's familiar face to gaze around the finely adorned room, the carefully arranged curtains and heavy décor making the large room almost feel suffocating.

"Two weeks ago you were still in the dormitories, trying to sleep over the roar of those chorus girls snoring, and now this? I can't believe it! You're so lucky…" Meg gushed, gingerly fingering the brocaded satin pillow tucked against her.

"And the Phantom? What have you heard, Meg?" Christine whispered, leaning forward with such an intense look of urgency in her eyes that her childhood friend was caught off-guard. Nervously sitting back in her seat, the young ballerina looked away again, but no longer in playful curiosity or awe. Her eyes betrayed deep concern, and Christine's voice caught in her throat.

"No, not-," she gasped, her voice cracking before she could finish her sentence. Meg turned to look into Christine's strained face with something that resembled confusion. The ache behind Christine's eyes began to intensify and before she could account for them tears began to run down her cheeks, the salty water choking her as the droplets ran into her slightly gaping mouth. Meg leaned forward now, extending her hand to wipe the melancholy tears from her friend's blanched cheeks.

"They say he's dead, Christine. The Phantom – dead. You're safe! Can you believe it? I don't, but Maman won't tell me otherwise," she huffed, her blue eyes narrowing with irritation at her mother's strict boundaries. Christine's eyes were wide now as she stared at Meg, the words echoing through her mind like a cry, replacing the familiar sound of the Opera Ghost's resonant tone.

"You are free, Christine. Do not cry, unless your tears are born of happiness. You may marry Raoul and have all this," Meg said insistently, gesturing at the lavish room. "Or do you cry for him – the monster, Christine? My dear friend, I have brought you something – a little… souvenir," she said, anxiously grasping the large satchel in her lap as she stared at her beautiful friend.

Opening the bag, Meg reached into its depths to bring hesitantly forth something Christine had believed she would never see again. The sorrowful tears never ceasing, Christine took it from Meg's hand, running her pale fingers over the smooth white surface of the Phantom's mask. Closing her eyes tightly and grasping the mournful façade of her mentor, kidnapper, and ghost to her bosom like a small child, Christine found herself sobbing uncontrollably, her chest constricting with an inexplicable pain as her mind ran with his pleading last words to her.

_Christine, I love you…_

"He is gone," Christine gasped as the room began to swim around her, Meg's alarmed face contorting and then vanishing into darkness as she fainted, falling from her chair to the heavy burgundy rug.

* * *

"I am sorry, but your fiancé is not well, Monsieur. I think it best she be alone with her friend for the time being… until we can declare her condition less fragile," the doctor said, escorting the devastated Vicomte de Chagny from the heavy doors of Christine's room. Raoul closed his eyes as he clenched his hands into tight fists, silently damning that Giry girl.

"Thank you very much Doctor Theillier, but that will be all. Obviously, Mademoiselle Daaé has been under a great deal of duress in the past few weeks. I will contact you if her condition does not improve," Raoul said shortly, ushering the doctor towards the door of the residence, anxious to return to Christine's side and rid her of Mademoiselle Giry's distressing presence. Doctor Theillier looked at the visibly shaken Vicomte skeptically, doubtful of the legitimacy of his claims, but took his hat and coat and left le Mason de Chagny, only turning to look back at the immense household as the dark wooden doors slammed shut.

"She is sleeping, Monsieur," Meg said hesitantly, emerging from Christine's room to find Raoul fast approaching, his fists white knuckled at his sides and square jaw taut.

"Well, thank God for that. I am sure you didn't mean to upset her," Raoul said, his tone belaying his outright anger at the results of the ballerina's visit as he loomed over her. Trying to control his expression, Raoul thought to himself, disgusted, "I knew this was a horrid idea. This girl is a figment of the past we so desperately need to leave behind – all of it." Setting his jaw, he took Meg by the arm and began to walk her briskly towards the door, practically dragging her in his urgency.

"Pardon me Monsieur, you are hurting me! Vicomte de Chagny!" Meg cried in shock, struggling under the increasing intensity of his grip as he pulled her down the somber hall to the door. Suddenly releasing Meg's arm, Raoul loomed over her with a look on his usually demure visage she had never imagined him capable of producing.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you had no right to alarm my fiancé. Your presence obviously upset her, and who could blame her? You are a part of a past she is desperately trying to severe her ties to, for her own sanity. I must protect her from that past, and if that entails removing you from her life, so be it. I love her," Raoul spat at her, grabbing her shoulders with a ferocity that surprised even him. She stared up at his noble face, disturbed by the violent change she had seen in the gentleman she had believed to know so well through Christine, and by reputation.

"I do not doubt you, Monsieur. I love her as a dear friend – my best friend, but if you believe that my presence is only bringing her harm I shall go. Take care of her Vicomte, if you love her. Salut, Monsieur." With that said, Meg broke free from Raoul's grasp and turned on her heel, almost running out of the de Chagny house and onto the street in her haste. Leaning against the smooth stone masonry of the grand mason, Meg gasped for breath and reveled in the comforting noise of the Parisian night. The rough streets of the city after nightfall were nothing compared to the oppressive silence of the de Chagny home and the barely contained rage of her friend's usually genial fiancé.

Walking quickly down the avenue, Meg's mind raced with questions and concern, pausing only as she realized that she had left the mask tightly clasped in Christine's arms. Meg hurried home, not stopping anywhere, anxious to relate to her mother the alarming events of the afternoon.

* * *

"Maman, I don't understand. Christine doesn't seem to know what she wants… it's almost like she cares for him, the monster in the mask. And the Vicomte de Chagny - he frightened me with the passion of his hatred. I fear for her Maman," Meg gushed to her stern mother, who sat rigid in her chair, primly sipping slowly on a cup of tea. Christine's emotional turmoil did not surprise Madame Giry; the dance mistress was wiser in the matters of her girls' young hearts than she let on. Slowly guiding her distraught daughter to her bedroom, Madame Giry rubbed Meg's back consolingly and ushered her into the narrow bed.

"Do not concern yourself, little one. Christine must follow her own whim, even if it leads her astray. Give her time," she murmured, hoping only to ease her daughter's mind, despite the misgivings of her own. "Bonsoir, Meg." Quietly closing the door behind her, Antoinette heaved a deep sigh as her mind ran with memories of the Opera and the young girl she had brought up as her own daughter. But foremost, her mind filled with images of the elusive Phantom, the man she had fought so hard to protect from his own pain and in the end, could not.

Shaking her head, Madame Giry ruefully considered her former pupil's sweet naivety, wondering, "Christine, will you ever admit to yourself the desire of your own heart? If you do not, your own misguided conception of love is truly your burden."

* * *

Erik sat at his organ, fingers resting delicately on the keys but making no movement to press them down. Sighing heavily, he lifted his hands away, noting the fine layer of dust left on the fingertips of his black gloves by the once pristine instrument. He could not bring himself to rouse the organ from its silence. He did not fear he would be found – the ones who had demolished his cavernous residence would not be back. Awe had brought them into the depths of the theatre, but the eerie silence of the place they found drove them away once they were through stripping the home of its fineries – the finest gold candelabras, some of the clothing he had stored away, and the finer of the tapestries.

He did not resent the loss as heavily as he had expected to. They had left his lair in complete disarray and had made an attempt at building a wall to obstruct any passage back to the cavern and its secrets. This development he appreciated more than lamented for it provided him with a new guise of privacy while at the same time being completely ineffective in obstructing his movements to and from his underground home.

Staring back at the organ, Erik noted angrily that several keys had been broken during the ransacking. Not that he had anyone or any reason to play for anymore; he knew that the organ's sound would be empty without the inspiration he needed to fill the music with. "It's over now," he said to himself, his voice echoing strangely in the quiet depth of his home. Furrowing his brow, he raised his gloved hand to trace the grooves and welts of the right side of his face, watching as he did in one of the broken mirrors lining the walls of the cavern.

"I have no pity for you, lonesome gargoyle, monster," he said, throwing a charred velvet curtain over his reflection. "Isolation is your mask now."

Then he heard it, a thin echo in the dark chasms of the Opera House's bowels, like the mere memory of a voice. Snapping around, Erik scanned the lake as far as he could, squinting into the vast shadows of his domain. He strained to see the source of the sound, knowing that more than likely it was a apparition of his broken mind, his broken heart. Holding a black hand over his face, he drew back through the mirror shards, his leather boots snapping the fragments as he went.

"You fool, it is an echo of an echo, not even a real person. It is a ghost of a memory, and you are falling for it. Merde! You fool, you inestimable fool," he thought, disappearing into the darkness behind the mirrors and burnt curtains into the passageway he had inelegantly made his escape through only weeks ago. Still, he held his hand over his face, closing his eyes as he felt the fleshy imperfections through the thin cloth of his glove.

"Erik…" he heard, his name drawn out and contorted by the winding passageways of the basement chasms. Trying to steel himself from gasping aloud, he peered from the corridor of his escape, searching between curtains and broken mirrors for the woman he hoped to be there at the watery doorway to his home. A tear soaked through the fabric of his glove, the slick feeling of salt water adding to his self hatred as he felt himself dissolving into more tears, a veritable river of pain running down his ravaged face.

"Christine?" he whispered, his intonation so low with pleading that the sound did not even echo. His voice cracked, a perfect recreation the sound he made as he looked up into Christine's eyes, emotionally shattered both by her kindness and her innate cruelty as she gave him back the wedding ring, tucking the diamonds between his shaking fingers with her smaller hands, barely caressing his skin in her soft movement.

_Christine, I love you…_

"Erik!" The sound was sharper now. The sound was also deeper - not the sound of the delicate girl he had so desperately clung to – had imprisoned. The voice was worn, older, and he realized that he knew its owner too well for either of their comfort. Watching through the ragged velvet curtains he saw Madame Giry trudging through the shallow water at the passageway to his lair, grasping her black cane in one hand and stopping to stiffly lean against the grime-streaked bars of his gate.

"Erik? I know you are here, Monsieur. To you I say bonjour – it has been too long," she said, her voice resonating through the grates of the gate and almost deafening him. "Erik? Do not hide from your friend. Do you hear me?" she said imploringly, searching the remains of his house with her gaze.

Her gray eyes fell on the shredded and burnt velvet tapestries and she sighed in exasperation, as if she could see him crouching behind them, tears staining his cheeks and pain filling his eyes. "Bien. I expected you would not speak with me in your sorrow. Your stubbornness. Adieu, Erik." Dropping a white paper on the jagged rock surrounding the algae-covered gate, Madame Giry turned, the words still bouncing throughout the cavern, filling the room as sound permeated all corners of the Phantom's silent abode.

Erik watched from his concealed position, ashamed at his own cowardice in the face of an old friend, a constant friend. Just as she was disappearing from sight he impulsively rose from his alcove, stepping into the open with his hand still concealing his cheek and hesitantly calling, "Merci, Antoinette. Merci…"

Barely distinguishable in the darkness, Madame Giry raised an arm and dipped low in a ballerina's elegant curtsy, nodding her head curtly as she stood and disappeared from sight.

Pausing first to ensure his complete privacy, Erik walked into the lake, the cold water flooding his boots and soaking his black breeches while simultaneously flooding his mind with memories of the night of the fire – the desperate attempt he had made on the foolish Vicomte's life before Christine's eyes. He frowned painfully, reaching up to brush away of what remained of the tears wetting his cheekbones and chin. Reaching through a rusted opening between the foul iron bars, he snatched the white parchment from the rocks and brought it forth, opening it in such haste that he ripped it slightly. Blanched, he peered at the note in his hands, mouth set as he anxiously read three black ink words scratched hastily across the wrinkled parchment with a dry fountain pen.

_Give her time._

Crumpling the note between his violently shaking fists, he fell to his knees in the dark water, the coldness of the lake hardly noticeable when paired with the intense heat of his pain, his anger, his _hope._ "Christine," he gasped, his voice incensed with desperation as he watched the green water soak through the note, blurring the words until he could no longer read them.

_ But Christine…_

_ Fear can turn to love,_

_ You learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, _

_ This repulsive carcass who seems a beast,_

_ But secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly, _

_ Oh, Christine…_


	2. To Save Her

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Two: To Save Her**

Christine opened her eyes slowly, the heaviness in her lids so deadening that she had to struggle to lift them. Her vision was blurred and her body damp and excruciatingly hot– she ran her tongue over her lips to find them cracked and swollen, the metallic taste of her own blood filling her mouth like bile.

Struggling to turn on her side in the swamp of twisted cloth, she felt a hard object against her neck, an anchor. Looking down, she found the empty eyes of the Phantom's mask staring back at her, the white leather glistening with her sweat. Crying out, she clapped her hands over her eyes, her clammy palms pressed against her lashes as she remembered the events of the day, the visit with Meg, the mask…

And the news of the Phantom. Clenching her jaw tightly, Christine again tasted fresh blood, her teeth ripping through the chapped flesh of her lips. The hard flavor permeated her mouth, reminding her of the strange and alluring taste she had found in his mouth as she pressed her lips to his, forgiving and punishing him for his cruelty and his madness. She savored the sweet pain, a last sensation of reality before she fell into a fitful sleep, the mournful half mask nestled beneath her feverish body and the soaked linens.

* * *

Raoul hovered over the bed, taking no pleasure in the form of his delicately beautiful fiancé lying twisted among the dirty sheets. Raoul thought mournfully, "Mon dieu, what can I do? I've tried so hard to save her, free her from this nightmare of the past, but she clings to it. What can I do?" Leaning forward over the mess of cloth, he softly brushed his lips across Christine's hot forehead, hoping his soft touch would still her troubled sleep.

Grimacing and twisting away, Christine whimpered desperately, a limp curl of her usually luxurious hair falling across her face like a mask. "Phantom…" she gasped, clawing at the sheets she was so thoroughly tangled in. Raoul drew back, hissing at the sound of that name they had so deftly avoided saying since leaving the Opera just weeks ago.

"Christine," he said, placing a tentative hand on her bare shoulder and attempting to rouse her with a light nudge. Crying out in fear, she curled around her legs, her nightgown wrapping around her in a death grip, outlining the quickly thinning silhouette of the girl who had seemed so healthy, if slim, just days ago.

"Christine, forgive me. I am sorry – so sorry. God, I love you, and I will save you yet, Little Lotte," the Vicomte murmured caressing her dull locks as she continued to toss fitfully, her face features taught with fear. Rising from the bedside, Raoul flung his coat on and strode out of the room, bracing himself for the cold Parisian night he was about to embark into.

* * *

"She is very ill, Vicomte. You should have called me when her condition did not improve. No, worsened! What could have driven you to neglect your own fiancé in such a reckless manner?" Theillier admonished, turning from Christine to glare at Raoul in disgust. The doctor was enraged, ready to continue, until he saw the look of true self-hatred coloring the Vicomte's noble face.

"What can I do?" Raoul said, his voice cracking. Embarrassed at the man's display, the doctor turned back to the patient, feeling her burning forehead gingerly as his own brow creased with lines.

"You must help her find her will to live. Until she has that, I cannot do anything for Mademoiselle Daaé," he stated, his voice low and harsh to Raoul's ears as tears fell down his raw cheeks, usually so smooth and proud.

Raoul watched Theillier as he gathered his coat and hat and left. Looking at his hands, the palms slick with tears, Raoul hissed, "Haven't you done enough, Phantom? You are killing her, even now." Bringing down his hands on the floor with a resounding crash, Raoul stared at the bed, the weak form of the woman he had tried so hard to protect. "Let her go, Phantom. Let her go."

_I fought so hard to free you…

* * *

_

He had not left the Opera Populaire for days, fearing not capture, but the destination his mind would likely force him to. "Let me go, Christine. Let me go," he pleaded at the darkness, more alone now than he had ever been as he implored even his memories to leave him to his silence. Still without his mask, Erik wandered the wreckage of the charred grandeur of the Opera, pausing where his memories bade him stay, running from ghosts his memory told him were there. The taste of Christine still lingered on his lips, unchanged by the passage of weeks now since they had touched him there softly and cruelly in the dark, promising him a million moments he would never experience. Following the sound of a voice which echoed only in his mind, Erik found himself in the basement room in which he had so often sung to Christine, promising her the help of an Angel of Music who he was not but pretended to be as she quietly lit candles for her dead father.

Approaching the place in which Christine had knelt before the brass candelabra, the Phantom reached within his breast pocket, drawing out a match. Leaning forward he struck the match and lit a solitary ivory candle, balking slightly at the brightness of the flame as it danced before him, bringing back all the memories of her he was trying so desperately to avoid, of that night. Had he imagined it?

"Christine, was it just fear that I saw, or more? Pity? No – I dare not think of it, give myself the hope. Mon dieu, how the mere memory of you enslaves me, even now, as I see those eyes in my mind," he whispered, his hushed voice ringing slightly in the dim room, filling it with an eerie tone that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. When she had looked at him, gazing back over the silent lake, away from the future and her handsome fiancé, he could have sworn he'd seen a flicker in those eyes – something that was not pity, nor horror. But he would not consider it – the pain of hope was too great for him to bear.

"Fear cannot turn to love, fool. You are an apparition of past horror, not a man at all. No human could love a twisted soul," he murmured, slowly running his hand over his face, no longer surprised to feel uneven flesh instead of pristine white leather. "Not even an angel…" he whispered, his voice betraying a despair unusual even for him. He rose slowly from the floor to blow out the candle he had lit for her and left the room, not turning back to see the wick still glowing with the remnants of flame as a thin curl of smoke snaked through the still air.

* * *

As Christine stood, she found herself standing in water to her thighs, the light lace of her negligee swimming in the darkness below her as she moved forward, trying to adjust her vision to the dim light of the cold cavern she had found herself in. "I am dreaming," she said, her voice bouncing back at her and singing around her. Dreaming… dreaming… the caverns called as the water gently lapped at her skin, making her skin tingle uncomfortably. Her brown eyes straining as she began to make out the outlines of her surroundings, she cried, "I know this place," nervously pacing in the water from craggy wall to wall in the cool lake she had found herself in.  
Turning suddenly at the faint sound of an organ, Christine paled under her already ghostly skin, her pupils dilating with alarm. "The Phantom," she gasped, the sound resonating against the walls so that dust from the cavernous ceiling above her head fell to the water, creating small disturbances and distortions in the glassy surface. She could see her own face in the water, the tiny waves deforming her features until she could scarcely differentiate her own eyes from the dark water she stared at so fixedly. Dipping her fingers in the place her face had been staring back at her from the water only moments ago, she squinted out into the dimly lit tunnel, weighing her options. Biting her lip, she reminded herself, "It is only a dream. No one can harm you, silly girl," and with apprehension still quivering in her breast, she began walking towards the distant organ tones.

As she made her way through the gray caverns and wide tunnels, Christine found the music distinguishing itself from the hollow resonances of the empty chasms surrounding her. It was familiar, and haunting. As she drew closer to the Phantom's lair, she found the ache behind her eyes growing unbearable as her vision blurred under salty water welling uncontrollably at the edges of her vision. Bringing her left hand to her face to wipe away the threatening tears, Christine drew a sharp breath. A delicate ring scraped her face unfamiliarly – it was not the ring Raoul had planted on her wedding finger – it was a more somber piece of jewelry, holding far more somber memories. The diamond-laced circlet of silver was filled with regret and shame, and as she stared at it she found herself shaking, remembering the broken face of the man she had so easily destroyed with one movement. And so easily filled with joy with another.

Walking forward with greater intention, Christine picked up the trails of her negligee and trudged forth into the dark water, abandoning the elegance she so diligently tried to maintain. As the music began to swell around her, she could make out the deep tones of his voice mixing with the notes of the organ.

_Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world,_

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before,_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be,_

_Only then can you belong to me._

Straining to hear the softly sung words, she closed her eyes and let the enchanting music fill her again, invading her mind with memories of that night she followed him deep underground, mesmerized by the beauty of his mournful voice. She drifted forward, grasping onto the dark bars of the gateway to his cavernous residence, deep under the Opera Populaire.

Suddenly the music halted, the cavern ringing softly with the last notes of the organ. She opened her eyes, gasping as she saw the desolate shadow of what she remembered the Phantom's magnificent lair to be. The curtains hung ragged and candles were scattered across the floor, the genius's work charred and ripped. Forcing her way under the bars of the heavy gate, Christine ran through the water, the splashing creating a sound close to roaring in the deeply resonant alcove. When she reached the shore, she found her eyes so full of tears that she could barely see through them and her knees weak with fear. And her chest – if she had ever felt pain in her life, it was nothing compared to the burning ache that filled her bosom now, as she stared at the wreckage of this underground dream, the bed of the Phantom. Wiping away her tears, Christine scanned the debris, searching for the hand by which the organ had sung its sad song. And then, she saw him.

Running to the organ, now full of broken keys and garish dents, Christine cried out, flinging her arms around the still form of the once refined man in black slumped over the front of the ruined instrument. Violently wrenching him about to face her, Christine fell back in shock, finding the face staring back at her not the twisted face of a monster that she had come to know well, but the serene face of an angel. Where the marring deformity had stretched across the Phantom's face was only smooth skin and perfect features, beautiful features.

Gasping for breath through her sobs, Christine stroked the now perfected cheek of her former mentor and ghost, balking at the alien smoothness beneath her pale fingers. Choking on her sadness, Christine fell forth into his still lap, holding his torso tightly in her arms as she whispered, "Mon dieu, but where is my beautiful Phantom?"

* * *

As Meg Giry left her home she turned back to see the ruined Opera Populaire rising above the buildings behind her, the light from the sun was just beginning to fade to lavender. The angels on the eaves glowed with the light from the falling sun, their bronze wings seeming to spread wide before her eyes as if they were about to take to the dimming sky, ushering in the darkness of night.

Barely able to contain her apprehensive mind, Meg turned and marched straight into the coming night toward the de Chagny house, both to challenge Raoul's ultimatum and the heart of her ailing friend, Christine. Knocking furiously on the solid doors of the de Chagny estate, Meg peered up into the dimly lit windows of the house, looking for some sign of movement, some sign of a response to her insistent banging in the quickly descending cold of the late Winter evening.

As she stood on the grand front step of the monstrous home, Meg felt the fingers of nervousness playing with her heart, making her blood pump faster through her veins as the cold air became frigid and the sky began to turn a deep blue above her head. Finally, a sound from within the silent residence, a flickering candle light at the window and a distorted black silhouette presented themselves. Raoul.

"Mademoiselle Giry, what do you think you are doing, pounding on our door just as night falls, and uninvited? You were not called upon, Little Meg, and now you must go," Raoul reprimanded as he flung open the heavy doors, almost hitting the startled girl. As she stared at his enraged face, another wave of shock passed over her – he was a shadow of the man she once knew and admired with the other dancers. In the dim light of his candle, he appeared sallow and drawn, the flame throwing shadows across his finely hewn features, revealing his sunken eyes and the deep circles below their cold blue gaze. Her zeal only renewed by his ravaged appearance, Meg pushed her hand against the heavy wooden door, forcing it farther open with a good deal of work.

"NO Vicomte. I fear you will have to let me in. I do not care what harm you think my presence will bring to your beloved fiancé, for I believe it may be you that is bringing her the greatest harm of all. Let me in, now," she said forcefully, her voice cold and commanding, the very voice of her strict mother, Madame Giry. Shocked at her daring, Raoul's mouth opened and closed as his mind raced with all possible retorts before he simply stepped back, allowing the small spitfire entrance to his somber household.

Leading her quickly down the hall to Christine's room, he glanced back at Meg to see that her eyes were full of rage, hatred even. Having rarely or never received this sort of glare from anyone, Raoul stopped, turning on her with an apologetic, pleading gaze.

"Help her, Meg. I cannot do anything anymore. He told me to give her the will to live, Little Meg. How do I do that when I hardly have that will myself anymore? How, Mademoiselle? I don't know…" he stammered, his eyes darting across her taught face searching for forgiveness, redemption, even sympathy. All he found was the cold anger in her eyes and the mournful set of her jaw.

"Monsieur, take word to Maman, I will need her. I do not need you," she said harshly, her own cruelty surprising her as she saw pain spread across the Vicomte's handsome face.

"I was trying to save her, Meg, save her. I love her more than… more than…" he choked, the words lost in the mess of his head as weak tears began to streak his sunken cheeks.

"Go, Monsieur. If you love her, go. Allez-vous!" she flung at him, the words slapping him across the face as if she had struck him. Without a word, he turned his back on her and hurried for the doorway, his shoulders slumped and shaking as he sobbed her name.

"Christine… please forgive me. I did it all for you…"

Violently pushing open the heavy doors to Christine's bedroom, Meg brought her hands to her mouth, drawing a quick breath as she saw the weakened face of her friend staring back at her from a bed of twisted sheets.

"Christine," Meg whispered, her voice faltering with fear and mind filling with a terrible, bitter feeling of helplessness. She rubbed her hands together in panic, savoring the slight warmth that the friction supplied her cold palms. Then flying to her friend's bedside, Meg again murmured, "Christine…" the soft sound echoing in the oppressive darkness of the bedroom. Christine stared up at Meg from her nest of stained linens, her lips stretching in the ghost of a smile across her wane face.

"Phantom, fear can turn to love…" she breathed, the words almost lost in the rasping of her breath. Meg grasped her hand tightly, running her hand down the sunken cheek of her friend as tears ran down her cheeks, wetting the bed that was already damp with sweat and tears of loss.

"What has happened? Meg urged, untangling the white mask from the mass of sheets and placing it in Christine's cold palm, bending her fingers around it in an attempt to comfort her. Sitting down among the mess of sheets, Meg ran her hand lightly over Christine's limp curls, once so abundant and full.

"He is gone, Little Meg," she rasped, her throat constricting on the last word so it came to her lips as more of a sob. Her brow slightly furrowing as her lips tightened to a puzzled frown, Meg continued to caress her friend's damp curls, urging her on with her confused silence.

"I was so lost. So lost. He is all there is, Meg, all there is in the world. When you told me he was… well, I felt my chest tighten, I swear it, like a dull ache bursting into a raging flame. I was… maybe I was… wrong. I feel so turned about, Meg. I thought all I had in my heart for him was pity, fear, but he was right Meg, he was –," she said mournfully, her voice thin and high in hysterical sadness and then faltering as she broke into wracking sobs, her thin shoulders shaking under the weight of her enormous guilt.

"And Raoul?" Meg offered, her eyes widening as the truth Christine had not found became clear to her, watching the suffering of the naïve girl before her.

"Raoul. He is everything I could ask for. Strong, honest, caring, but… there is something in his gaze that is lacking, a paleness in his good blue eyes that betrays their shallowness; I love him, Meg, but I feel so suffocated in this place… under his wing. I feel like an adult waking from a child's dream," Christine mumbled, her eyes fluttering as she glanced around her dark, heavily decorated surroundings, as if seeing them for the first time.

"But Christine, he was a monster – an apparition," she said desperately, looking for the timid morality in Christine she had come to know so well.

"No, Meg, he was a man. A man," Christine said, holding the Phantom's mask hard to her chest as she turned from her friend to face the damp pillow, tightly shutting her eyes as if trying to shut out the reality of her world, her decisions. Her past.

* * *

"Meg!" The words echoed through the silent house, waking Meg with a start. Looking up she saw Christine still lying tangled in the bed, her hands wrapped desperately around the Phantom's mask as she mouthed wordlessly in her light sleep. The sound of quickly falling footsteps up the hall echoed through the room until Madame Giry threw open the doors, letting in a burst of alien light from the lantern dangling from her hand as she clasped her black cane in the other.

"Maman, I don't know what to do. She is so lost. She does not know what she is saying, but she talks and looks at me as if she knows me," Meg said in a hushed voice, her eyes red and raw from crying.

"Oui, little one. She is lost, but it is not her body that is ill. It is her heart," the older woman stated, nodding emphatically as she looked worriedly at the twisted form of the girl she saw before her, her hands tightly gripping the Phantom's mask.

"Mon dieu! Where did she get this?" Madame Giry exclaimed, rushing to the bedside to brush her fingers over the leather surface of Erik's precious mask. Turning back to Meg, she saw guilt written all across her daughter's face as the girl tried to hide behind her blonde curls. "Ah, oui, I see. Of course," she murmured, throwing a disapproving but slightly bemused glance at Meg, who, encouraged by this, came forward to stand by her mother at the bedside.

"I found it Maman, in those caverns. Is he alive, Maman? You can tell me, Maman…" Meg trailed off as she saw her mother's eyes narrow. Madame Giry threw a protective hand over Meg's shoulder and drew her close, pressing her daughter to her slender frame.

"He is gone, but I have hope that he will return, little one," she said, running her fingers slowly over the surface of the white mask. "But, not yet. No, not yet."

* * *

Jolting from his uncomfortable sleep on the floor of the bedroom he had created for Christine to look feverishly around his surroundings, Erik threw his hand over his face, grasping blindly for the feeling of his familiar white mask but not finding it.

"Fool, it is gone. It is all gone," he snarled, damning his mind's slow grasp on the present and all its misery. "Sleep, sleep. Why open my eyes when I know she will not be there to look upon?" he asked himself, his voice full of bitterness as he stared at the empty swan bed towering over him as he lay on the rough stone floor. "Give her time? All I have given her is time – all the time I ever had to give! It was hers, and she stripped me of it, cruelly filling me with hope as she plotted her life with that _boy, _that _child_," he spat, knowing even as he said it that he was lying to himself. "No, dear monster, no, you cannot speak so ugly a lie, even from so ugly a visage," he said, smiling at his own weak attempts at hatred.

"You gave her your time, unasked, and she gave you her trust because you tore it from her, stealing it through your desperate schemes. Had you owned that handsome face, the one she fell in love with in the end, you would still have not deserved her, or her kiss." Staring at his hands, he began to violently rip the black gloves from them, the tearing fabric filling his ears with foreign sound. "Give her time? I have no more time to give and no way to give it to her," he cried, rubbing the bare palms of his elegant hands over his inelegant deformity as if to erase it as the now familiar tears welled in his blue eyes, threatening to spill over.

Standing now, he began to rip away the last of his fabrication, his elaborate façade, tearing the fine waistcoat and cravat, shredding his white muslin shirt and ignoring the icy cold of his cavernous lodgings. Facing one of many broken mirrors, he considered his body, perfect in contrast to the imperfect countenance that glared back from the shattered glass into his tearing eyes. "Monster," he whispered, watching his lips contort to form the words in his cracked reflection; "Twisted creature."

"Can you even dare to look or bare think of me?" he mouthed fiercely, his voice a grating rasp that horrified him in its pathetic sound. Turning from the mirror he looked back at the swan bed that had once held the heart of his love, his Christine, sleeping soundly and peacefully just inches away as he stroked her rich hair, taking in the heady scent of her beautiful form as he breathed. He remembered the feeling of her smooth hand against his face, caressing him softly as he sang to her, and then the feeling of that same hand as she clawed to escape him as he desperately dragged him back to his lair in his last attempt at her devotion. Grimacing at the memory of his mad despair, he brought his hand to stroke his cheek as she had, closing his eyes as he allowed the tears to fall down his cheek, sliding between his fingers like fine sand.

"Christine," he choked, collecting the ripped remnants of his clothing and throwing them at the broken mirror in a last, pathetic gesture before throwing on a light muslin shirt and cloak and disappearing into the caverns, hood covering his face as his eyes stared into the darkness, full of hopeless intention.


	3. Cowardice

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Three: Cowardice**

Slipping quietly through the dark stone-cobbled streets of Paris, the Phantom carefully held his cloak over his face, determined to avoid recognition from the few people who walked the streets, eyeing him with suspicion and curiosity. Running his tongue over his pursed lips, he tasted her still, that surprisingly strong flavor of innocence and beauty that had clung to his mouth for all the weeks since it had been locked with hers. Trying to push the memory from his mind but failing, Erik relived that feeling as she pulled him to her, slipping on the wedding ring he had given her and covering his mouth with her own, running her other hand up the right side of his face and not flinching at the feel of the grooves and welts that had so horribly marred it for all of his virtually loveless life. Pulling back, she had looked him in the face, her warm brown eyes holding a secret that he desperately needed to disclose before she closed them again, her thick lashes making dark crescents on her alabaster cheeks.

And she had kissed him again, differently this time, her lips searing across his as if she too were searching for the answer to her own secret, trying to discover a truth she could not find. The breath torn from his lungs, he had returned her ferocity, drawing her thin form to his chest as the cold water of the lake lapped around them and Raoul stared on (hopefully desperately jealous, as far as the Phantom was concerned). As she pulled back that last time, he had met her eyes again, his gaze searching her face for some revelation of her feelings, her decision. In her countenance he had found a look that left him without words – that tore his heart to pieces and smashed his frantic scheme to nothing. And he let her go, her taste still clinging to his lips like a brand, a stain of ownership. She enslaved him with her cruel kiss as he had enslaved her with his deceptive song, and won her freedom. His desperate dreams were dashed violently in her wake as she fled, clinging to Raoul.

At last reaching his destination, Erik tried to shake the humiliating memory from his mind, again pulling his heavy cloak tightly against him. His body shaking with fearful excitement, he began to scale the finely hewn wall of the de Chagny residence, slipping his long fingers into the thin mortar lines as he slowly pulled himself up the sharp vertical ascent into the night sky. He was chasing stars, heavenly bodies that he had no right to grasp in his unclean hands.

"Angel," he murmured under his rasping breath, afraid as the word slipped from his lips into the air, becoming undeniably real.

* * *

Raoul paced restlessly in his spacious study as the two women continually dominated him, took control of his grand household and stripped him of his masculine privilege. He repeatedly approached Christine's bedroom only to find women turning him away with small but commanding hands and soft but harsh voices. Madame Giry was a tyrant if he'd ever met one, and it was becoming apparent that Little Meg quite took after her mother. For days now he had been subject to their whims; they confined him to the East side of the residence, using the full West side for their feminine activities. Sometimes in the night, he blinked awake with a jolt believing he could hear Christine's voice in the dark, the sweet melodies of her singing songs that he had not heard since they had left the Opera Populaire over three weeks prior.

_Angel, stay by my side, guide me, _

_ Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me…_

When he rose from his bed to see the fair owner of the angelic voice, he was met with a distressingly stern reprimand as soon as he trespassed on the West Wing of the mason and a gentle reassurance that he was only dreaming. "No, Vicomte, no, the beautiful Mademoiselle sleeps…"

Occasionally, he was surprised by a light knock on his door and a cajoling voice – Meg, come to ask for supplies for the Mademoiselle's care, and never Mademoiselle Daaé herself. So isolated had he been for the last few days that he was beginning to secretly wish for that knock to come, signaling at least some contact, however indirect, to his untouchable fiancé. Tonight no knock had come and as the house gave way to the evening's darkness he had found himself uneasily pacing in his study, the only sound in the large room caused by his fine leather boots hitting the Persian rug as he walked back and forth in agitation.

"Merde," he thought, "how can I live like this?" Just as he was considering bursting through the door and marching into the West Wing to demand access to Christine, a pleading knock came at the door, momentarily postponing his plans. "Oui? Enter!" he called, trying to disguise his happiness that someone, anyone, would be seeking his company at any time of day, particularly in the unavoidable loneliness of night.

The door slowly opened, the hinges creaking mournfully as it swung, revealing Meg's pale face and blonde ringlets in the darkness of the hall as she peered apprehensively into the Vicomte's private study.

"Come in, Mademoiselle!" he insisted, beckoning her with a wave of his hand.

"Merci, Vicomte," she said formally, her timidity betraying her obvious nervousness in disturbing his pacing (which he was sure she had heard upon her quiet approach).

"What may I do for you, Mademoiselle Giry? Shall I give you the rest of my house and go live on the streets, or perhaps you'd like me gone from them as well?" he said bitterly, savoring the look of embarrassment that flashed across her attractive countenance.

"No, Vicomte, surely…" she stammered, struggling to find pleasing words. "It's – well… Mademoiselle Christine is showing improvement. Maman says she is asking for you." Raoul looked at her in disbelief, hardly believing what he had just heard.

"Excuse me?" he mumbled, his face going pale.

"Oui, Monsieur. We think she is out of danger – her fever is gone and she has slept soundly. Come, see her," she said gently, watching as the Vicomte's recently strained face relaxed in relief, his eyes tired and heavy. "Come," she urged, placing a light hand on his forearm as a small smile spread over his boyishly handsome face and a spark returned to his quickly aging eyes.

"Merci, Mademoiselle Giry. Right away," he said, hope filling his hoarse voice for the first time in days as he followed her out the door.

"Raoul," Christine whispered, her voice faint but breathing steady as she propped herself on her arms among the white linens, no longer sweat soaked and twisted, staring at him with an exhausted but calm gaze as he entered her room. He rushed to her side as soon as the door shut behind him, not hesitating as he took her in his arms, shaking slightly as she acquiesced to his tight hold, kissing him lightly on his pale cheek with her lips, which were just beginning to regain their rosy color.

"Oh darling, I am sorry – forgive me," he said, resting his head on her delicate shoulders as she ran her hand through his light, disheveled hair. Pulling back to look her in the face with expectant eyes, he urged, "Are you better, darling? Do you feel ill? I will do anything…"

"Shh–," she breathed, continuing to caress his hair as he looked at her with worry written all over his face, his features sunken and skin white with lack of sleep. "I will be fine, of course. Tomorrow I will perhaps even be able to leave this bed. For now I just need rest," she said consolingly as he kissed her cold cheek lightly.

"Why do I feel ill, despite my improvement?" Christine thought, feeling his lips brush against her cheek, darting and warm. "My chest, the ache, all the same even as my fever left me."

"Shall I let you sleep, ma chérie? We can talk tomorrow, when you are feeling better, perhaps. You look so tired," he said, still holding her close to him as if afraid of losing her. He frowned slightly as she tensed at the word "chérie", her body stiffening under his arms. "Are you sure you're all right?" he said, his smooth forehead creasing with worry.

"Of course. Tomorrow. I will sleep. Bonsoir, Raoul," she said, her voice containing a coldness he could not remember hearing previously from his beloved Lotte.

"I love you, Christine," he added as he began to pull away, eyeing her wearily, as a child eyes an angry parent while preparing himself for an angry rebuke. Seemingly startled by the words, she looked up at him with wide brown eyes sunken with a shadow of exhaustion.

"I love you too, Raoul," she said, smiling slightly in the corners of her pale lips. Satisfied with this reassurance, Raoul planted a hasty kiss on her forehead and left her, closing the door softly behind him, sealing in his beloved fiancé for her recovery. "I love you too," she whispered as the door closed, the ache behind her eyes seeming to intensify with the words as the sound filled her skull, slowly transforming until she could hear his voice, soft and sad in the dark.

_Christine, I love you… _

Mademoiselle and Madame Giry straightened as Christine's door creaked open and Raoul appeared, pausing to painstakingly ease the door back into its mahogany frame without a sound from the rusting brass hinges. He then turned to see them waiting anxiously in the softly candlelit hall, trying to ascertain his state of mind having seen the improving condition of his delicate fiancé.

"Merci Madame, Mademoiselle. She is much improved," he said coldly, his voice conveying the bitterness he felt at having been prevented from seeing her sooner by Madame Giry's strict command.

"Oui, Vicomte de Chagny, but she is still weak. We shall require your patience," the older woman said, tapping her cane sternly on the hardwood floor of the dimly lit hall. He grimaced at the ultimatum, not quite sure he could bear to be separated from the girl for so long again. "You may see her, Monsieur. I assure you," Madame Giry stated, her face giving away no emotion as she regarded the young man as she would a puppy needing to be trained, or a child insisting on dessert before l'entrée. He responded with a stiff nod, his long hair swinging before his face as he continued down the hall to his study in his preferred side of the mansion, sharply slamming the heavy oak doors behind him.

"He has much to learn," the dance mistress said to her daughter, smirking at the Vicomte's childish gesture. "He does love her, though," she thought, considering the closed door at the end of the hall as if it were his face, staring haughtily back at her. Meg glanced up at her mother pensively, curious what thoughts were running through her mind as her eyes rested steadily on the Vicomte's door.

"Oui, he loves her Maman," she said innocently, her honest blue eyes considering her mother's solemn face as it spread with a knowing smile.

"Oui, little one," she said, gently guiding her daughter towards their rooms at the other end of the hall, deep in the West Wing of the large residence. She paused to listen at Christine's door for any sound of unrest, but heard only the light breathing of a girl's deep slumber and continued up the dark hall, stopping only to blow out the flickering candles of the last candelabra, grand and imposing in its breadth.

* * *

The Phantom rose from his crouched position outside Christine's window, peering through the murky glass to judge whether or not she was yet asleep. He meticulously pressed the panes open, quickly slipping through the gap and closing the window gently behind him so as to not let in too strong a gust of cold night air. Standing awkwardly behind the tasteless white curtains shrouding the window, Erik breathed shallowly, trying to listen to the sleeping sounds of his long-estranged angel. Slowly disentangling himself from the gossamer curtains, he emerged into the dark room only to draw back as her sleeping form presented itself to him, vague in the dimness of the bedroom.

Sliding his shaking hand into his pocket to delicately play with the diamond ring she had so brutally returned to him only weeks ago, he stepped forward to look upon her as she slept quietly in the grand, sweeping bed in the center of the room.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he truly saw her, his Christine. She had kicked aside her numerous sheets, leaving her lying only in her white chemise and lace negligee, both distressingly familiar as he remembered the first night he had allowed her to gaze upon him, the night of her first performance. Her hair was strewn over the pillow like a dark web, the soft curls framing her pale face as her full lips opened slightly to inhale the still air of the room. Scarcely able to move, he nervously brought his hand to cover his face, afraid that even in her gentle sleep his horrifying visage would frighten her and fill her dreams with dark monsters. As he gained confidence he slowly drew subtly closer, leaning over slightly to breathe in her light scent, like jasmine and delicate roses on a warm August night.

As he focused on her face, his arching brows drew together in deep concern. Her haunting, porcelain face was drawn and the skin around her eyes was waxen and dark.

"Christine," Erik whispered hoarsely, the word escaping his lips before he could control himself - stifle the sound. Quickly turning from her, he clasped his trembling hand tightly over his right cheek, protecting her from its monstrous deformity, anticipating her imminent gaze and terrified reaction. But all he heard was steady breathing; no sounds of shock or fear interrupted the eerie silence of the bedroom. Not even allowing himself to sigh in relief, he again drew closer to her bedside, examining her sickly face with great concern. Had she been ill? Fever? Had she been cared for? His mind raced with possible scenarios, most involving Raoul acting like an ignorant fool, neglecting and abandoning her, despite his actual doubt of this hypothesis' legitimacy. Raoul might be a thoughtless boy, but he wasn't so blind as to miss the undeniable beauty of the woman he had so indelicately stolen from the Phantom's loving grasp. Erik's eyes closed momentarily as he mourned his loss, the intense pain of his separation from the only person he had dared seek out filling his chest.

His eyes snapped open as he heard her stir restlessly, clasping her hands together desperately at her bosom as if searching for something to hold. Her graceful features contorted in frustration as she found nothing to fill her fingers as they groped around her, reaching desperately for whatever it was she sought among the sheets. His distorted face softening as he watched her uneasily toss in the ocean of linens, the Phantom reached forward to lay a bare hand on her forearm, his own audacity shocking but thrilling him as he breathed in deeply, feeling under his fingers her smooth skin, remembering that last passionate embrace as she gave herself to him, if only to save her handsome fiancé. As he lightly stroked her arm, running his fingertips from her delicate hand to shoulder, she ceased her frantic search and eased back into a silent sleep, her hands clasped together tightly against her chest, still empty.

Knowing he had stayed far too long, Erik bent over her sleeping body, his hand still covering his ravaged features, and ran his forefinger along her cheekbone down her chin and into her soft hair, the sweet smell of the dark locks assaulting his senses as his eyes began to tear. Frowning slightly, Christine turned her face into the hand, rubbing her cheek against his smooth palm as his breath caught in his throat, effectively taking away his ability to speak.

"Phantom…" she whispered in her sleep, the name spoken in a low and frightened sound that shamed him – he was a mere nightmare from the past to her. "My presence in even a dream fills her with dread," he thought bitterly, staring down as her soft cheek rested in his palm, relaxed and still. A single tear snaked down his cheek as he removed his shaking hand from her face, bringing it to his own to wipe away the evidence of his despair. "Adieu, Christine," he whispered, the words hanging in the absolute stillness of the dark bedroom as he left, gently pulling closed the window behind him.

"_Phantom," _Christine gasped as a light gust of cold air whipped over her sleeping form. "Angel…" she cried, tossing over in her bed to reach the Phantom's white mask, hidden beneath the numerous pillows and gripping it tightly to her chest as a child does a favorite doll. As she slept, tears ran from her closed eyes, hanging in her eyelashes like the night-wrought dew in morning hangs from a delicate spider web, clinging and crystalline.

Erik ran through the dark streets below, whipping his cloak behind him as a dangerous rage filled his heart. "What right has she?" he hissed, grasping the diamond ring so tightly that it began to cut his palm. Blood beginning to stain his white sleeve he cursed her for her beauty, her innocence. He damned her for her love. "To offer me the world and then strip it from me, lying to yourself and me – why, that is cruelty, Mademoiselle, hard and unforgivable." He stopped then, pausing to stare at his bleeding hand, the dark blood shining in the dim light of the alley. The blood was alien – warm in the cold night air, it felt as if it was no part of him. "Ghosts do not bleed" he spat derisively, smearing the blood against a brick wall and feeling his cuts fill with grit. Finding he no longer cared, the Phantom spoke to himself softly, as if whispering a secret. "You can hate her as she hates you," he whispered.

* * *

Madame Giry sat up in her bed, quickly clapping her black cane in her grasp as a soldier does his bayonet as she rose and pulled her robe about her. She could have sworn she'd heard something… a cry in the night, echoing through the still Mason de Chagny. A cry that did not belong in the pristine world of the Vicomte and his young fiancé. Hurrying quickly but quietly down the pitch-black hall, the strict woman was careful not to wake her daughter or rouse the annoyingly paranoid Comte from his cavernous study. Pausing outside the door to Christine's room, Antoinette listened carefully for any sound that did not belong in this grand but oppressively quiet house.

"A maid? No, it could not be… the Vicomte dismissed them weeks ago, out of fear that they were upsetting his 'chérie'," she thought, her ears picking up a faint sound of footsteps from within the room. "It couldn't be – no, he wouldn't dare…"

Just as she considered this unexpected prospect, Madame Giry heard a window swing closed from within the bedroom of her former pupil and assuming the worst opened the door with her cane thrust forth like a deadly sword, ready to defeat any kind of foul miscreant. Aging eyes squinting in the darkness, Antoinette paused, again listening for any sound of trouble in the dark bedroom. The rhythmic breathing of the sleeping Christine filled her ears as an eerie silence fell over the room – too new feeling to have been there long.

Rushing to the window, Madame Giry felt a chill in the air and pulled aside the curtains to see an empty cobbled street, some of the smooth stones shining through the dusting of snow that so thoroughly coated Paris in winter. Sighing with tired relief, the ballet mistress pulled the gaudy curtains closed, shielding Christine from the gaze of so many curious night stars. Walking to the bed, Madame Giry's eyes found the white façade among the tangle of sheets that lay partially over the sleeping girl's body – the Phantom's mask stared at her from Christine's lace-enclosed bosom as if scolding her for storming into an exhausted girl's room at this time of night in search of ghosts and monsters that she knew truly did not exist. There were only desperate men in Madame Giry's worldly experience.

* * *

Light filtered through the white gossamer drapes filling Christine's bedroom with an uncommon amount of bright sunlight as she lay in her bed, hands still wrapped about the leather mask of her Phantom. Feeling a penetrating glow through her eyelids, Christine slowly forced her eyes open and balked at the garishness of the light that filled her usually somber room. Looking down, she found the empty black eye of the Phantom's mask staring up at her mournfully, pleading with her in their sadness. As Christine sat up in bed, cradling the half-face in her arms she stroked the white leather surface thoughtfully, trying to remember the subject of her vague dreams.

Hearing the footsteps of an alert household outside her door, Christine turned clumsily and stashed her dangerous treasure between the down pillows, only pausing to feel the outline of its smooth leather curves among the elegant linens with her fingers.

_ If you can still remember, stop and think of me…_

The lyrics of the familiar aria filled her mind as she walked to the window, pulling aside the silly curtains to gaze down on the bustling streets of Paris. Snow clung to the eaves of some of the houses and the murky gutters of the roads, but the early sun seemed to have melted away much of what had just yesterday swathed the city in a thick white blanket. Smiling as she watching the snow melt drip from the icicle-studded roofline, Christine opened her mouth to whisper softly the words of the mournful aria that had been her first, that she had sung before the audience at the Opera that night he finally let her see him.

_Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind,_

_Recall those days – look back on all those times,_

_Think of the things we'll never do,_

_There will never be a day when I don't think of you…_

Her hushed whisper gave way to full fledged song and Christine grasped the windowsill with her unsteady hands, supporting her weakened frame as she emptied herself into the aria that had introduced her to the unsuspecting world.

Raoul looked up from his desk anxiously and dropped his fountain pen as a voice floated through the house as sunshine filled the windows, lighting corners lost in shadow for so many days now.

As he entered her room, he smiled at the sound of her beautiful voice – the same sound that had once reborn in him all the memories of their shared childhood, their shining past. Christine stood with her back to the door, dark hair cascading down the back of her white negligee, her delicate frame lit through the gauzy garment by the winter morning sun as she leaned on the windowsill, singing out to the streets below.

"Do not frighten the commoners too badly darling. They're likely to think an angel is approaching them straight out of heaven, ushering in the end of the world with a voice so beautiful," he chided gently, his lips pulling at the corners into a nervous smile as she turned around to face him. He started slightly as he saw the change in her countenance; what had been sickly pale was flushed and healthy – what had been sunken was smooth and full. Amazed, Raoul approached her, sliding a hand up her blushing cheek as he smiled down at her in adoration.

Pulling away from his touch, Christine said softly, "I miss singing Raoul. I miss the Opera." Surprised at this response to his irresistibly charming advances, a dark look of confusion crossed Raoul's plainly handsome face, his eyes flickering with baffled concern.

"In time darling. The Opera Populaire, after all, is abandoned since the fire and I'd imagine it shall not be righted anytime soon," he calmly told her, hoping his words would not discourage her apparently rejuvenated spirits. Taking his hand and placing it on her cheek, Raoul leaned over her as she stared up at him thoughtfully.

"Of course, I know, dear," she mumbled, the words trailing off as he leaned in to kiss her sweetly on the lips. As he pulled back she found herself trembling, the feeling of his kiss overwhelmed by the familiar taste of the Phantom's mouth ever-present on her lips since that last night in the bowels of the Opera. Shaking off her distraction, Christine smiled weakly at Raoul and turned back to the sunlit window, silently hoping he would take the hint and leave her to dress in the privacy of her bedroom.

As soon as she heard the door of the room shut, Christine again braced her hands on the windowsill, hunched as she tried to steady her ragged breathing and slow her thumping heart. Running her tongue over her lips, she again tasted that spicy tang, the memory of their lips meeting as Raoul watched, unsure of what his fate was to be. And then meeting again as she forgot Raoul, his kindness and promise fading from her thoughts as she returned the Phantom's tight embrace and desperate kiss. Then, as she began to feel a painful, unknown truth rising in her chest and filling her heart, she pulled away abruptly, her eyes betraying her thoughts as the Phantom stared, shocked, into them with his deep blue gaze, seemingly reading her panicked mind.

Easing back onto the beautifully made divan set out for her feminine use, Christine wiped her hand across her lips as if trying to tear from them the memory of his mouth, knowing full well it was impossible. Raoul's kiss still lingered on her lips, but she could barely taste it under the stronger taste of him – like a taste of sugar after a draught of citrus. Inevitably, the sugar will be overpowered by the strength of the citrus, an unavoidable truth of existence, of taste buds. Christine closed her eyes, the gravity of her heart's demand filling her mind as she tried her fullest to ignore that impossible request.

* * *

Erik sat at his desk, surrounded by his customary array of glowing candelabras (although all of them were battered and others broken), when he heard Madame Giry's stern voice echoing through the tunnels of the Opera House and looked up, alarmed.

"Erik, _zut_, where are you?" she bellowed indelicately, her usually carefully controlled tone straining to make itself heard in the extensive network of caverns making up the Phantom's somber domain. Alarmed at her use of profanity, Erik clasped his hand to his face, cursing the persistence of the strict woman. He could hear her cane tapping in the shallow water, filling his home with a clattering so irritating that his eye began to twitch beneath his bare hand.

"Merde! Must you force me to trudge through these tunnels every time I have a word to say to you, coward?" she snapped, her voice ricocheting off the dank walls like a gunshot as she approached the murky gate of his residence. Weighing his options quickly, Erik settled to reside in shadow behind the broken mirrors until he was sure what it was this old acquaintance wanted of him, cowardly as it seemed. He found his pride so broken that cowardice no longer shamed him; what did it matter? "Coward," he repeated in his mind, weighing the curt accusation before drawing back among the broken glass and shredded curtains to wait for Madame Giry's imminent visit.

"Stop, Erik! I know you're there – where else would you be, foolish specter?" she said in mocking scorn, pricking what was left of his wounded pride. He stepped from behind the curtains, hand held to face as he stared at her through his left eye, it's blue depths blazing with something akin to rage.

"Oui, Madame? How may I help you?" he sneered, trying to ignore the panic in his heart as he stood unimpressively before the unforgiving woman, disheveled and uncouth in his misery.

"The question you should ask, Monsieur, is: how may I help myself, poor beast that I am?" she spat derisively, fighting his rage with equal strength. About to hit him with another burning insult, she looked him in the face with a fierce glare that immediately fell to shock, her mouth going slack just as she was readying herself to pour forth another round. "Erik?" she gasped, her voice cracking as she stared at him in horror.

"Forgotten how ugly your dear friend is, Madame Giry? Horrified?" he hissed venomously, turning from her wide-eyed gaze to shield his scarred visage in shadow.

"Look at yourself, dear Monsieur," she pleaded, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the tense room as she approached him tentatively, reaching out to touch him but drawing back. Tensing irritably, he obliged her and whipped around to stare into one of his many broken mirrors, the glass broken with in violence of his anger that night he had disappeared. Catching the reflection he had so avoided among the cracks and distortions of the shattered mirror, he breathed in sharply, aghast at his own haggard countenance. Letting his hand fall limply from his face he stared, fixated by the paleness of his skin and red vagueness of his usually sharp, calculating blue eyes. Face tight with intense emotion, Antoinette laid a shaking, thin hand on his slumped shoulder, turning him to her, unfazed by his familiar deformity but shocked by his ragged appearance.

"What has happened?" she whispered, her stern voice betraying an immense guilt.

"My heart is empty, Antoinette, loveless monster that I am," the Phantom said, slowly placing his hand over his marred visage and turning away from her piercing stare. "How can I pity what I hate?" he asked bitterly, slumping into his chair and sitting bent over his work desk, its surface scattered with the charred remnants of rose petals and paintings, a jumble of ash and crumpled paper bearing the distorted face of Christine.

"C'est la vie, Monsieur. But, I have reason to believe it is not forever – if only you will have patience. She is so young, Erik, and her heart too green to guide her true. Please –," she pleaded with his hunched back, frustration seeping into her voice as he stubbornly refused to look at her. "Erik, listen to me! I am no fool!" she barked angrily, placing a solid hand on his broad shoulder, the muscles tense under his dirty white muslin shirt.

"But I am, Madame? For giving up hope? For abandoning it? It's too true, she is young, but to abandon that handsome cad for this," he said fiercely, turning to gesture at his face before continuing. "Or this," he spat, indicating his heart. "All distorted, Madame, I assure you. I cannot love. I do not love. And I am alone." He said the word "alone" with such hatred that Antoinette flinched, drawing away fearfully as he rose stiffly and walked away, disappearing behind the ragged curtains and shattered glass into the shadows of his underground domain. Shouting back over his shoulder with cruelty in his cold tone, he spat, "Leave me be, woman. Take your deceit elsewhere, for I have had enough of your vicious kind." And he vanished into dark anonymity.

"Fool. Don't you know she loves you? That I love you?" she whispered, her face slack as she watched the Phantom fade into darkness to leave her standing alone in the wreckage of his genius to weep for him, and for herself.


	4. Aggregation

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Four: Aggregation**

Madame Giry leaned into the mirror, noting the fine lines that were slowly deepening and lengthening around her eyes and mouth. Running her hand up her cheek she squinted, watching her reflection blur. She could almost believe the face staring back of her was that of a young ballerina, innocent and engrossed in her secret friend, the Devil's Child. Reopening her eyes she watched her face focus again, the wrinkles and sag of age ruining the illusion of youth and the woman sighed, mourning for lost time. It had been years since she'd seen her dear Devil's Child.

"Erik…" she said to herself in the mirror, reminding herself that the name belonged to a face no matter what time had passed since he'd disappeared into shadow, vanishing from her life. "Where are you?" Antoinette thought, her mind going through the familiar list of possible locations for the Phantom to be concealing himself and quickly discarding them all, frustrated with the routine of it all. Turning as she heard the eager footsteps of her daughter in the hall, the aging dancer opened the door, leaving her inappropriate daydreams at the mirror.

"Maman!" Meg cried, indelicately rushing through the house looking for her mother. "A letter, Maman! From Christine!" Rounding a corner to find Meg pacing in the cramped kitchen, Madame Giry scolded her impatience sternly.

"Meg, stop! Very uncouth, little one," she chided, trying to contain her unseemly excitement as she deftly snatched the crisp parchment from Meg's hands as she continued to dance around the kitchen. Inelegantly ripping the wax seal, Madame Giry squinted, trying to read the refined penmanship despite her aging vision, brushing off Meg's attempts to steal back the letter from her.

_Dear Madame and Mademoiselle Giry,_

_ I trust my letter reaches you both well. It has been too long, mes amies, but I shall be returning to Paris soon –a week at most. The Vicomte has been very busy with matters of property during our stay in Bretagne, but I have kept occupied working through the vast library at his estate. It has been lonely, of course, but c'est inévitable, I'm afraid. How long has it been? A year? Two? Sadly, the Vicomte and I have still not been able too start a family, but perhaps it is for the best. He is so busy and I would not want children that could not know their Père. I have so many questions to ask… so much to tell you of my travels. The world is not so small as I would have believed while living in the dormitories of the Opera Populaire, but of course that was so long ago now. Une vision de rêve. In any case, I will see you both as soon as I can; I will send word by messenger upon my arrival in Paris. _

_ Sincèrement, _

_ The Vicomtess de Chagny_

Christine winced as she penned her formal name, each letter scratching uncomfortably on the beige parchment. The Vicomtess de Chagny – she could barely even say it. The words stuck in her throat like bitter vomit, the title no longer giving her the pleasure it did in the first months of their marriage. Ashamed as she began to feel tears pricking in her eyes, she quickly closed the letter, pouring wax over it and stamping it with the de Chagny crest. It had been too long since she and Raoul had left Paris – he had claimed the ocean air of Bretagne would do her instable health good and wash her system clean of the dark memories of her past.

"Poor Raoul," she sighed, watching as the wax solidified on the parchment, the crest glossy and red – laughably official. When he had found the mask in her bureau he had flown into a fit of anger that terrified her - and him. Horrified by his uncharacteristic outburst he tore her from their life in Paris, trying desperately to leave the mysterious affair of the Opera Populaire behind them as he threw himself into business and her into his vast seaside estate. She had left the Phantom's mask where it fell from his grasp, its empty eyes gazing at her mournfully from the floor as he pulled her from the room, hysterical with rage. Christine ran her fingers over one another, wishing she had it to hold now as she stared out at the ocean, the violently crashing waves breaking upon the shore, unrelenting as fierce love.

Glancing back down at the letter on her desk she saw that a tear had dropped on the parchment, distorting the ink on the inside so that it bled, shadowing the proud wax seal. Embarrassed by the effortless tears, Christine rose, wiping her raw eyes, and carried the letter to the door to find her maid and order the dispatch be mailed tomorrow, with her husband's many memorandums of important business.

Outside her bedroom door she found Raoul, his hand extended to knock as he looked at her in surprise. Startled, she took a step back.

"Raoul, may I help you?" she inquired, mildly amused by the baffled expression on his bland face. "I was just going to give a letter to Colette," she said as he glanced at the letter in her hands. Gesturing with it, she was careful to cover the tearstain with her fingers; the vast majority of his questions were most unwelcome and often accusatory, she had found.

"Oh, it is nothing. I just wanted to say hello while I was in," he sputtered, obviously without a stock reply at his tongue. He threw her an apologetic smile; it had been several days since Christine had last seen him. Returning his smile with a hollow twitch of her lips, she pushed past him into the hall, calling for her maid as she walked coolly away from the love of her childhood, the disappointment of her adult life.

"Christine!" he called, making her stop and turn to again look at him inquiringly, impatient to find Colette and deploy the message to her dear friends. "Remember, we shall leave in a week. You must pack, chéri – there is no time to dawdle." His condescending tone thoroughly irritating her, she continued on her search for her incorrigibly scarce maid.

* * *

As their carriage passed before the Opera Populaire, Christine's breath caught in her throat, prompting a sour scowl from her overbearing husband. "How grand it was," she thought, amazed at how its image had blurred with her time in Bretagne. A familiar ache rose behind her eyes but she dismissed it, swallowing her memories with the ease of the terminally ill swallowing their bitter medication. She bit it back as was customary to her, letting the longing build inside her chest and press upon her heart.

She turned from the tiny window to look at her husband, scrutinizing him with her cold gaze. He ignored it, frowning as he examined the business papers in his lap. "Always fretting about the family fortune," she thought scornfully, amazed at his greed. As time had gone on, Raoul's preoccupation with "keeping them in good society" had continually grown until sometimes she doubted he cared about anything else. Scolding her own cruelty, Christine again considered him. "He still loves you," she noted, barely comforted by this reflection. Raoul's steady and reliable love had not soothed her as she floundered in the vast mansion by the sea alone, an army of servants and housekeepers at her command, none of which gave a damn about her happiness. "They weren't paid to maintain my happiness," she thought bitterly, returning her gaze to the window and away from her preoccupied husband.

Straining her neck to see the fast disappearing Opera Populaire at the horizon, Christine reflected sadly on her bland if constant marriage to Raoul, her mind crying to her heart, "You will never know passion, sad heart." Disgusted by her self-pity, she discarded the notion, opting instead to concentrate on the faces of the friends she would soon see for the first time in years.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the de Chagny residence, the windows lit and house obviously full of servants eagerly preparing for the Vicomte and Vicomtess's imminent arrival from Bretagne. With a flourish, the Vicomte leapt from the carriage, offering his gloved hand to Christine. Ignoring his beckoning palm, she stepped capably from the coach, amused by the look of exasperation she imagined on Raoul's face. Sweeping up the front steps, she threw open the heavy doors to the Mason de Chagny, startling several bustling servants as they worked to dust the heavy mahogany banisters of the marble staircase. Turning a blind eye to their awkward behavior, Christine hurried down the front hall to her bedroom, pausing to check if Raoul was watching her before she eased open the door, the brass hinges creaking slightly.

Closing the door behind her, Christine took in the familiar bedroom's arrangement, noting with pleasure that the maids had lit the candles before her arrival. She listened for her husband's footsteps in the hall and not hearing them, swept around the bed to kneel on the rug, hands searching for the treasure she knew must be there. Throwing a hand under the bed, she felt the hard leather surface and grasped it tightly, quickly pulling it from beneath the heavy flounces to bring it to her breast. The dark eyes of the Phantom's mask stared up at her gratefully, thanking her for saving it from its dark cavern under her empty bed. The white leather left a layer of dust on her satin gloves but she ignored it, running her forefinger over its curves as she whispered the haunting name she had known him by. "Phantom…"

* * *

Meg Giry drew her cloak tightly around her shoulders as she held her lantern before her, lighting the dark passageway as it led her down, deep into the bowels of the Opera Populaire. Thankful for the flickering glow of her candle, she began to regret her decision to come. "Silly girl, what were you thinking?" she asked herself, her scornful voice echoing and distorting in the resonant stairwell. It amazed her that even as the Spring sun blazed outside, lighting Paris in every shadowy corner, the depths of the Opera House still remained dark as night and quiet as a tomb.

Groping at the cool stone of the walls, Meg continued her descent, soon finding her in just the room she had hoped to arrive in. Holding her lantern above her head as if to ward off ghosts, she peered around the chamber, noting how the spiders had strung their silky webs between the candelabras to create a network of misty traps. Walking forward, Meg opened her lantern to remove the candle, blowing the dust from one of the candelabras many ivory candles and lighting the wick. Coaxing the flame with her breath, Meg relaxed, watching the light flicker about the once-familiar room.

"A candle for your father, Christine," she whispered in the flickering darkness, regretful that she had not thought to light a flame for her dear friend earlier in her absence. "Mon dieu, I've missed you Christine," she said, no longer bothering to hush her voice. Whatever ghosts had remained here were long gone, frightened off by the gentle glow of the dusty candelabra. Giggling at her own superstitions, Meg looked about the sad room and remembered Christine's debut on the stage and her flight to this somber room after the curtain fell, lighting a candle for her father just as a flurry of people begged to see her in the rooms above. The memory was vague and distant; her days as a dancing girl at the Opera Populaire just a indistinct blur in her past. "Christine…" she sang softly, listening to her weak voice resonate in the chambers of the underground, stirring up old dust and demons.

"Christine…" the darkness answered, startling Meg so intensely that she dropped the open lantern and the candle tumbled out and fell dark. The room was now lit only with the flickering glow of the candelabra and Meg's heart raced.

"Is someone there?" she called, the dark room ringing with the sound of her high, frightened voice like a tiny bell. "Please?" she pleaded with the empty air, hoping for both a retort from the darkness and a lack of one for she was badly frightened of what voice would answer her.

"Christine…" the chambers sang, the sound like a sad echo, mournful and drenched with intense pain, like blood. Her eyes flew around the room, pausing in dark corners and seeing shadows in her mind and Meg rose from her position on the cold floor to fly to the entrance, not stopping to pick up the capsized lamp. As the hollow sound of her swiftly falling footsteps faded up the stairwell, the air in the room hung in silence, as if waiting for some disturbance to wake it from a dream.

"Christine…"

* * *

"Maman!" Meg cried, bursting through the front entry with the force of a small hurricane. "Maman! Where are you, Maman? The Phantom!" she bellowed, storming through the house throwing open doors.

Snapping out of sleep, Madame Giry sat straight up in bed, her body rigid and face tense as she heard someone tearing through the house, screaming. Tumbling from the bed, she grabbed her cane and threw open the door, coming face to face with her hysterical daughter.

"Maman! Oui, Maman… I was in the room, Maman, lighting her father's candle and I heard him, Maman, the Phantom of the Opera! He was there in the dark, singing Maman, singing her name–," she cried, stopping only when her mother grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to stand still despite her excitement.

"Meg, you saw the Phantom? You saw him?" she demanded, her voice betraying a deep urgency that took her daughter aback, jarring her from her state of hysteria.

"No, Maman. I did not see him – I _heard_ him Maman, singing her name in the dark, a mere echo at first…" she exclaimed, examining her mother's tense face in alarm. "What do I do, Maman? He is not dead – a spirit, Maman," she whispered, her voice hushed and high with fear. Madame Giry turned away, her hand across her mouth as her mind raced with possibilities.

"Meg, you must not go back there. Promise me! If the Phantom is truly there, do not return, little one. It's important," Antoinette said urgently, staring down the hall as her daughter stared at her in confusion. "Promise me, Marguerite!"

"Oui, Maman, oui…" Meg whispered, suddenly afraid of the emotion she heard in her usually composed mother's commanding voice and saw in her dark, calculating eyes.

"Bien. A note came today from Vicomtess de Chagny. She has returned to Paris, and we are to dine with her tomorrow for lunch," Madame Giry stated calmly, her countenance returning to a carefully controlled expression and voice low and direct as she turned to her daughter, handing her the crumpled letter she had clasped in her tight fist. "D'accord?" she asked, not waiting for a reply and stepping back into her bedroom, closing the door abruptly behind her.

* * *

The Vicomte paced in his study, brow furrowed as he habitually considered matters of finance. The ring of the doorbell in the entry interrupted his concentration, prompting him to stomp towards his door and throw it open, ready to lash out at some dim-witted servant. Instead, he was presented with the sight of Madame and Mademoiselle Giry being ushered in the entry by a nervous maid who glanced at him, already apologetic for the disturbance. Composing himself, Raoul walked forward, taking the Madame's hand in his own and leaning over it formally as she nodded at him politely.

"Vicomte de Chagny," she said coolly, eyeing him with the stern gaze of a ballet mistress, the role she had never fully abandoned. Meg eagerly extended her hand and the Comte laid a light kiss on her knuckles, rising stiffly to smile awkwardly at the young woman.

"Meg! Madame Giry" Christine cried jovially, hurrying down the hall with her thin arms outstretched. Pulling her friends to her, Christine closed her eyes, savoring the comfort of familiar scents and bodies around her. "Come in, come in," she demanded, smiling as the women followed her to the lavish parlor and Raoul disappeared back into his study without a second glance.

Sitting stiffly in a ridiculously brocaded chaise, Madame Giry regarded her adopted daughter warmly as she and Meg began to chatter excitedly at one another, eager to share their experiences over their years apart. Christine looked well enough; her complexion was healthy and full of color and her face was full. Thoughtfully, Madame Giry noted a shadow in the young girl's eyes that had not been present just years ago during their time at the Opera Populaire. Christine's wide brown eyes were bright but her gaze was blank, like the glazed look of a captive bird from its cage.

"Madame Giry, you are well I hope?" Christine ventured, noticing at last her old mistress's silence.

"Oui, Vicomtess, I am well. Merci. Your invitation was very kind," Antoinette replied politely, her stern voice not quite disguising the underlying warmth of her feelings as a slight smile played with her pursed lips. Christine smiled widely.

"Oh, do not call me Vicomtess! It sounds so stiff," she chided softly, watching as the strict woman who had raised her from childhood returned her smile timidly.

"Christine, pardon me. I cannot stay, sadly. I thought to just say bonjour before going to work," Madame Giry said apologetically, blushing with slight embarrassment at her inappropriate cancellation.

"Of course, of course. Where do you work, Madame Giry?" Christine inquired politely, ignoring the woman's discomfort with the situation.

"I am teaching ballet. Private lessons. The girls are horrible – no discipline," she said bitterly, her familiar disgust prompting Christine to break into a small smile. "Adieu, Christine. Meg, I shall see you later," she said, rising with her cane in hand and departing, stopping to close the door smartly behind her.

"Hasn't changed, has she?" Christine laughed, breaking into a wide smile as Madame Giry left the room.

"Of course not! Never, Christine, you know Maman," Meg said, giggling delightedly, content to be in the company of the girl who was raised as her sister once again. "And how are you, Christine?" she asked jovially, expecting a cheerful reply from her always-genial friend.

"Ah… well, you know," Christine said quietly, her face falling slightly and smile vanishing as Meg leaned forward in concern.

"What's wrong?" Meg inquired, alarmed at the sudden change in her beautiful friend's countenance.

"It's nothing, really. I am so happy to be back in Paris, to see you Meg. And your mother. It's just so strange to be here, in this house. I suppose I'm just displaced. Seeing the Opera on the ride in just shook me, I think. It's not important," Christine said dismissively, hoping the topic would be abandoned. Meg stared at her doubtfully, plucking at her blonde locks nervously as she looked at her friend.

"And Raoul?" she asked hopefully, tossing aside the curl she had been nervously fidgeting with.

"Raoul is very busy," Christine said quickly.

"That's all?" Meg asked coyly, nudging Christine conspiratorially. "You can tell me, Christine…"

"I know, dear. It's just, well, there is so much distance between us. It isn't that I don't love him," she said, sighing deeply and raising her hand to her furrowed forehead. "It's just, well, I don't know if I'm _in love_ with him." The words hung uneasily in the air for a few moments before Meg smiled in understanding. Her blue eyes filling with mischief, she leaned forward again.

"Do you miss him?" she implored in a hushed voice, meeting Christine's wide eyes knowingly.

"Miss him? Well, when he's gone all the time, of course," Christine said, confused by the look Meg was giving her.

"No, _him," _Meg said, putting a strong emphasis on the word "him" and biting her lip as she stared at Christine, willing her to understand. Christine's eyes went wide as the realization hit her. _Him._ Suddenly overcome by a surge of unfamiliar emotion, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her elegant chaise. "Christine? Are you all right?" Meg asked, her soft voice dropping the playful air of conspiracy.

"Yes, Meg. I miss _him_," Christine breathed, holding her pale hand over her eyes as she felt tears welling beneath her lids. Feeling Meg move beside her, Christine leaned against her friend's slight shoulder and buried her face in the blonde ringlets, willing the world to swallow her as tears began to run down her cheeks, unstoppable. Tasting salt in her mouth she sat up, immediately embarrassed by her display and wiped away her futile tears, startling Meg with her brusque movements.

"Christine?" she asked, running a hand over her friend's dry cheek.

"I miss him, but he's dead, Meg, dead, and there isn't a thing I can do Meg, not a thing. He's gone, and he's been gone for long years," Christine spat, the ferocity in her voice grating in her throat like sandpaper. Tightening her jaw, the dark haired girl sat stiffly in the chaise, willing herself not to cry now, after he'd been gone for years. A familiar voice sang in her head, urging her on with its mournful tone.

Blinking back the last tears from dark eyes, Christine smiled at Meg, her expression hollow and pained, and said with every figment of cheer she could muster, "Shall we dine?" She rose from the chaise elegantly, careful not to meet eyes with Meg as she stood, idly smoothing her light blue afternoon dress.

"He is not gone, Christine. The Phantom is there," Meg whispered, reaching out to grasp her friends stiff arm as the world vanished before Christine's fluttering eyes as she heavily fell to the thick carpet, her legs going weak beneath her as his voice filled her head with mournful ringing while darkness quickly consumed her.

_Have you forgotten your angel?_

_

* * *

_

Erik cursed his foolishness in drawing attention to himself in such a careless manner. "What did you expect, bête? For her to appear in the dark as soon as you pathetically call for her? And worse, you let that little dancing idiot hear you." Sitting down at the organ bench with an uncouth thud, he ran his pristine black gloves over the keys, careful not to rouse them from their silence. He turned slowly to face himself in the broken mirror at his side, taking no pleasure in the improvement in his countenance and dress since the last time he had peered at his own ravaged reflection in that same glass. However polished half of his face appeared, his knew that the monstrosity of the other sad half would always mark him, making him less a man and more a pitiful creature of the night. "A loathsome gargoyle," he whispered, remembering a time when he had spoken that scorning epithet that he'd rather forget.

Slamming his flat hand on the ivory keys in old frustration, Erik jolted the dusty organ awake with a painful groan. How long had it been? Two years? And yet he continued to falter in the past, tripping over his own words and memories every time he tried to move forward, leaving the Opera and its dark bowels behind him. As the months had passed since he'd departed from Paris, abandoning his cavernous home and its secrets, despair had slowly turned to a dull anger, more a vague ache than a distinguishable, focused rage.

His reflection stared at him doubtfully from the cracked plane of the mirror, as if asking, "Did you really believe you could leave it here? Your past is scorched into you, branded into your face, Phantom." When frowning only intensified the horror of his deformity, he twisted away, refusing to recognize his own disheartening likeness and the constancy of its repulsive shape.

After walking out on the distraught Madame Giry like a cowardly brute, Erik fled the country for England, settling in the anonymity of London's eccentricities. The harbor town provided him with a guise of grime; it seemed everyone who came to London was there to escape a murky past. Utilizing the small fortune he had accumulated while at the Opera Populaire in its prime, he purchased the privacy of a small flat in a perfectly derelict part of the city. There he went unnoticed, his heavy cloak thrown across his face as he explored the cobbled streets by dark, searching desperately for something, anything to draw _her_ from his mind. Pubs provided him an escape for the first few months of his stay before he regretfully found that drowning ones sorrows in alcohol was at best a temporary solution to his despair. Waking up morning after morning head pounding and usually pristine appearance in disarray, he found intoxication quickly lost its allure, choosing instead to bury himself in composition and literary pursuit. While Erik's portfolio of musical opus grew exponentially as he hid himself in the dark of his small study, he never played his works, knowing that to release the pain in sound would only stir up the memories he was trying to empty onto the page.

The Phantom's rash decision to return was not premeditated in the least; wretched as it seemed, he was driven from London by the workings of his nighttime mind which exposed him to dream after dream that shook him to his bone until he stopped sleeping altogether. His angel's distorted face filled his days as well, taunting him as her cold brown eyes regarded him mournfully. Desperate to escape her stranglehold, Erik left the quiet sanctuary of London, opting to at last face his past in Paris rather than to live trying desperately to outrun his own tortured mind - his own painful memories. He arrived in Paris on a blazing Spring evening, the sky alight with fierce red and orange over the Opera Populaire as his carriage slowed to a stop at the base of its grand marble staircase. The golden angels that lined the eaves of the ruined Opera House glowed in the setting sun, their wings seeming to outstretch above their heavy shoulders, ready to lift them into the fading heavens. Disappearing into the darkness of the theatre, the Phantom descended into the hell of his past, steeling himself against the pain of the memories he knew waited for him there in the bowels of the Opera.

What he had found there was no more than the burnt out carcass of what was once a grand venue, and in his residence below it he found only ash and dust coating the wreckage of what once made up his life. In the vast rooms of the theatre he could hear the faint whispers of the past, but those memories which had always found him did not change; they were there, sharp and real. The feel of her body as she clung to him, trying desperately to save her lover and herself in a cruel feign of desire. The chants of the angry crowd that followed him into the darkness, naming him an abomination, a monster as they ripped apart his candlelit alcove. The look in her dark eyes as the boat pulled away and she twisted to see him, standing shattered on the shore as he watched the woman that could have been his float away the man he had given her to. He wandered the ruins of the Opera Populaire among the charred wreckage studding the once grand halls like sad monuments of a forgotten age, or the wreckage of a disastrous rage.

Erik had followed Little Meg, hearing her soft footfalls echoing above him as she made her way to Christine's candle-room to light a flame for her friend's dear father. He listened as she spoke into the darkness, holding his breath in the twisted stairwell while she lit one of the dusty candelabras. And then she said that name, the one that had haunted his mind in night and day as he ran from the memory of its owner: Christine. And before he could stop himself he let go an echo, a raspy utterance that should the Opera House have been any silent, would not have been heard. But the sound rung through the still air of the chambers and before he could still his wretched heart, he echoed again and again, whispering her name longingly in the dark as Little Meg started in fright below him.

Painfully ashamed of his ludicrous behavior, he ran from the stairwell, disappearing below the theatre into his cavernous home before any fair, familiar face could gaze upon his shattered visage. And now he lashed out at the air, again breaking its tense silent with a dejected sound, filling the alcove with the raspy tones of his tired voice as he began to sing, quietly at first and then stronger, hoarsely crying out in a defeated voice above the resonance that had grown to deafen him.

_Stranger then you dreamt it,_

_Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me?_

_This lonesome gargoyle who burns in hell,_

_But secretly yearns for heaven, secretly, secretly,_

_But, Christine…_

_Fear can turn to love,_

_You learn to see – to find the man behind the monster,_

_This repulsive carcass who seems a beast,_

_But secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly… _

_Oh, Christine…_

_

* * *

_

Christine screwed her eyes tightly shut as her bedroom door opened, carefully slowly her breathing to effect the guise of sleep. She heard voices in the hall, hushed and full of concern but was careful not to betray her façade.

"I am sorry, Vicomte de Chagny, I do not know what I said to upset her," Meg lied through her teeth, eyeing the handsome face of her friend's husband to see if her fib went undetected. Unfazed, the Vicomte nodded irritably, listening to the heavy breathing of his wife in the dark room as she slept.

"Forget it, Mademoiselle Giry. I'm sure the Vicomtess was just overwhelmed by your visit and the stress of our recent travel," he said stiffly, the reassurance hollow in his pursed mouth. He threw an empty smile at the Mademoiselle and pulled closed the door of Christine's bedroom, again putting her in absolute darkness.

Quietly sitting up in bed, Christine listened for the sounds of the fading footsteps. Once she could no longer hear them, she rose from bed and pulled her nightgown over her head, shivering in the chilling room. Moving efficiently but being careful not to make noise, Christine dressed herself in a warm, modest dress and wrapped her traveling cloak around her shoulders, pausing only to smooth her hair as she regarded herself in the mirror thoughtfully.

"Too many years fighting back tears," she whispered under her breath, meeting her dark eyes in the glass. "Why can't the past just die?"

"You didn't die, Phantom," she breathed, the sound of her epithet for her old mentor sticking in her throat. "You are not gone at all." Whipping around Christine walked softly to the door and eased it open, carefully craning her neck to peer down the dark hall of the Mason de Chagny before she made her quiet way out the grand foyer and onto the dimly lit street.


	5. L'Ange Déchu

**Chapter Five: L'Ange Déchu**

The Opera Populaire blocked out the night sky above Christine, the golden angels and dark gargoyles on the eaves staring down at her from their perches among the budding stars. Drawing in a deep breath of the crisp air, Christine gathered all her courage in her aching chest and strode up the sweeping steps and through the entrance of ruined theatre. Her light steps echoed in the front hall as she hurried across the marble floor, arms outstretched and hands groping feebly in the dark. She stopped suddenly at the base of the main staircase, almost able to see the jubilant dancers twirling in their Masquerade attire as they sang the very words he had that last night, hunched defensively over the tiny form of his monkey music box. Closing her eyes to the darkness didn't block out the image in her mind – the completely devastated look that had crept into his eyes as she had pressed the engagement ring into his shaking palm.

_ Masquerade,_

_ Paper faces on parade _

_ Masquerade,_

_ Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

Clenching her fists as if to fight off the past, Christine obeyed the whispers in her mind and made her way up the grand marble staircase, trying not to pause as she feverishly remembered every word the Phantom had sung to her, descending to almost touch her with his gloved fingertips before balking, ripping the engagement ring and gold chain from her neck. In that moment, she had cursed herself for wearing the ring – not because it had been stolen, but because it had cast a dark shadow in her Phantom's face as he gazed upon it, almost as if the ache that had filled his chest had crept into his countenance, clouding it.

Again, Christine weakly refused to dwell in the past. She was inside the Opera Populaire for what she believed to still exist within its charred walls at present – not for the clinging apparitions that spoke to her as she passed through it in the pitch black. Reaching the top of the stairs the breathless girl paused, heart catching as she peered over the vast panorama of the ruined theatre she had once stood before, just years ago. Smiling slightly as sweet nostalgia filled her, the would-be prima donna made her way down to the stage between the rows of graying seats, once furbished in elegant red. Dust rose around her as she walked – a swirling train of disuse. The air was still here, and the silence almost deafening in its weight. The gray ash clung to the rich velvet upholstery of the chairs like snow.

Holding her heart in her throat, Christine stepped onto the wide hardwood stage, her heels clicking on the polished surface as she nervously situated herself center stage and looked intently out over the empty rows of seats, almost expecting a ghostly audience to stare expectantly back at her. She tentatively began to sing the aria for the first time in years, her voice rising sharply in the eerie silence of the Opera Populaire and breaking over the ruined grandeur like a wave.

_We never said our love was evergreen,_

_Or as unchanging as the sea,_

_But if you can still remember stop and think of me._

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen._

_Don't think about the way things might have been…_

_

* * *

_

Erik awoke lying uncomfortably across the keys of the dusty organ, hands grasping the surface like a drowning man grasps the wreckage of his sinking ship. Glancing around him as he ran his gloved hand over his uneven face, his ears pricked with an alien sound – a voice piercing the heavy silence of his Opera. Shaking his head violently, he laughed at himself bitterly. "Oh Phantom, losing your mind as well? I suppose it was inevitable. It's almost as if she is there." But the heavenly voice persisted, and the Phantom began to feel that all-to-familiar ache in his chest expanding, pressing painfully on his heart as he rose from the organ and turned his face to the obstructed sky. "No," he whispered, disbelieving, denying.

Unable to resist the desperate urging of his conscious, Erik emerged from the bowels of the Opera hurriedly, seeking a dream of a voice. Dust hung in the air around him, gossamer curtains of time. He walked quickly up the marble staircase, purposely not pausing to remember the Masquerade and the look on her face as he'd ripped the ring from her, claiming her. Her voice was resonating through the ruined theatre, stirring dark shadows and darker memories as he followed it, an unwilling slave to its foreign and entrancing sound. Drawing a sustaining breath, he made his way through the thickly carpeted hall to his customary Box, ready to face an achingly empty stage and the lunacy that had infected his mind with longing hallucination.

But there she was. As he gazed down on her, hand over the monstrosity that had poisoned their love so long ago, she did not disappear, vanishing into the draperies of dust that clung to the air. Christine stood enchantingly real and inexplicably there at the center of the grim stage, singing out to an invisible audience and a forgotten time. Her dress was plain but finely made, her hair modest but so familiarly gorgeous as she stood there, face full of a pain that was mysterious to him despite the presence of the same pain within his frenzied heart as it seemed to stop dead, freezing the moment.

_Think of me – _

_Think of me waking silent and resigned._

_Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind._

_Recall those days,_

_Look back on all those times_

_Think on the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you._

Christine let herself go, flinging herself into the agony of two years separation from this place and its alluring ghosts and sang with every ounce of strength she could find in her body. She belted it out, the words scorching her as they left her throat and descended upon the audience of ash and ruin. Despite herself, the singing girl felt eyes upon her and could almost imagine that the audience was there, not of dust but of flesh, anxious nobility, sitting stiff and scandalized as she sang to them in her plain dress on an abandoned stage. Raising her eyes, afraid that she would see them there staring back at her in all their grandeur, she stopped dead, her voice suddenly and irreversibly caught in her throat.

Christine could feel the weight of his blue eyes upon her, making her knees weaken and heart leap inestimably in her chest. He was excruciatingly beautiful, his powerful body subtly betraying every possible sign of disbelief and face contorted with pain as he anxiously covered his deformity under a gloved hand, unchanged even after two long years of silence. His proud mouth gaped slightly and she could almost feel his breath upon her, intoxicating as it was that night as he gazed at her after their first kiss, gasping for air in disbelief and desperate longing. Her Phantom was standing in Box Five, irrefutably existent – not gone at all, not dead or changed despite the passage of years, the empty sorrow of absence. Her dark eyes locked with his and her voice again took wing to the reverberating air. Christine almost whispered in her disbelief, the alluring words of so many years ago filling her mind as they left her hoarse throat.

_In sleep he sang to me_

_In dreams he came_

_That voice which calls to me_

_And speaks my name…_

The Phantom felt himself begin to crumble as her sad voice invaded his body, clouding his mind and stripping him of what little strength he could find within his shattered heart. As he slowly collapsed to the rich carpet of Box Five, he let loose her name onto the ringing air, gasping, "Christine" and the world went black and silent around him. Stopping mid-note, Christine flung her arms out as if to catch the Phantom as he fell and she screamed, shattering the eerie resonance of her mournful song. Abandoning all apprehension she leapt indelicately from the stage, starry crystals from the wrecked chandelier cracking like ice under her feet as she ran up the red stairs and through the velvet draperies to Box Five, the air rasping from her lungs.

Throwing aside the heavy curtain, Christine dropped to her knees in the dust beside the Phantom's twisted body, almost afraid to touch him for fear he should vanish, or slip through her fingers into nothing – not flesh at all but fine ocean sand. His gloved hand was still clasped to his face, the thin black leather obstructing her intrusive gaze. Rising slowly from her crouched position beside him, Christine cried into the silent Opera House, "Help! Please, please! Help…" Her voice bounced back at her so that the entire ruin seemed to scream, the wreckage of the grandeur from her abandoned past pleading her to help, help please. Staring down at the slumped man at her feet, Christine felt utterly powerless. Helpless tears brimming in her eyes, Christine cursed and composed herself sternly. "Merde, no time for crying, childish girl. No more time to cry," the Vicomtess told herself coldly, wiping away the tears just as they were born and resolving herself as she marched out of Box Five in search of the only person in the world she knew to find now.

* * *

Madame Giry threw open the door, shocked to find Christine standing impatiently on the stoop, her immaculate complexion drawn and ghostly white. Reaching out to pull her inside, the dance mistress slammed the door on the cold Parisian street.

"Madame Giry, you must help me. It's the Phantom," Christine spilled out, the words coming so quickly that they bled together into one jumbled plea. Not even bothering to respond, the aging woman threw her cloak over her shoulders and grasped her black cane, only pausing to listen for any sound of Meg. Satisfied that her daughter remained asleep, Madame Giry followed Christine out the door and into the spring night.

They reached Box Five to find the Phantom still lying on the floor entangled in his own dark cape, eyes closed tightly and hand spread over his deformed countenance. Madame Giry resisted the urge to gape and fell to his side, feeling his cold face and listening to his slow breathing while her hands shook violently. Relaxing slightly, Antoinette looked up at Christine and said calmly, "He will be all right, Vicomtess de Chagny. He has simply passed out." Christine let out a breath, ignoring Madame Giry's use of her formal name and feeling as though she had been holding all air in her lungs from the instant she saw his beautiful face. Lips twitching slightly at the incredibly relieved look on the young woman's face, Madame Giry frantically considered her options before deciding on the correct course of action, perhaps the only course. "We must take him back to his home," she said sternly. Christine nodded capably, secretly wondering how in heaven they were going to accomplish that between them while glancing skeptically at the body of the muscular man lying before her, swathed in dusty black.

Trying to hide her doubt, Madame Giry struggled to lift the Phantom's limp body while Christine took his head gently between her palms, careful not to allow his hand slip from his face.

* * *

The room was blurred, the candles' flames like glowing lanterns far in the distance down a dark avenue at night. "Where in heavens am I?" he wondered listlessly, noting thankfully that his hand remained heavily thrown over the right side of his face, shielding the world from its hideous form. He blinked, again trying to focus before his mind flooded and he froze, overwhelmed. It came to him. Christine. Christine had been singing. She had been there, clear as an early spring day. Singing to him as he looked down on her. Christine. The Phantom lamely tried to find focus but his vision remained a vague mass of searing light and plunging dark, and finally surrendering to the fierce will of his exhausted body he closed his eyes, helplessly allowing darkness to descend on him once again.

* * *

Madame Giry hid her smile as she glanced up to find her young friend staring at the bed, apparently transfixed by the soundly sleeping form of the man she had finally rediscovered. Pulling her aching body from the chair she had deposited herself in, Madame Giry smoothed her plain black dress and took up her cane, caressing the ivory handle with her thumb as she watched Christine thoughtfully. "Christine, I am going to leave you if it is all right. I need to return to my house before Meg awakes to find me gone," she said properly, somewhat abashed to interrupt Christine's thoughts.

Snapping back into reality with a start, Christine turned to look at her former dance mistress, trying to quell the telling blush that was threatening to color her pale cheeks. "Oui, of course. I shall stay here until he wakes. I'm sure I'll manage," she said distractedly, throwing a weak but thankful smile in Madame Giry's direction from her seat at the Phantom's cluttered desk. "Thank you Madame Giry. Merci beaucoup. I could not have handled him without you." Nodding curtly, the Antoinette made her way to the secret exit Erik had abruptly left her through two years ago and disappeared into the darkness of the chasms.

Rising as soon as Madame Giry's footsteps faded away into silence, Christine rushed to the Phantom's bedside, trying to contain her frantic excitement as she gazed at his sleeping form, examining the exposed side of his smooth visage. His mouth was as strong as she'd remembered it, the lips full and noble as they quivered with his sleeping breath. She blushed slightly, reflecting on how those lips had felt against her mouth as she forced him to kiss her and then eventually gave way to his searching embrace as he returned her desperate passion. Shaking the inappropriate thought from her mind, she looked away, somehow ashamed to be staring at him as he slept. "No doubt he would object," she thought scornfully. Smiling slightly, she mischievously noted that her Phantom wasn't in a state to do any kind of objecting and turned back to him. Her eyes caressed him as he slept, noting the elegance of his dark lashes and brows and remembering the piercing blue of his waking eyes. Shaking slightly with apprehension, she extended a tentative hand so that it hovered over his pale face, gently stroking the air over his features so as not to wake him with her touch. His cheekbones were proud and his jaw-line defined, both adding to the nobility of his countenance. "He is beautiful," she thought, retracting her venturing hand in anxiety. Pausing, she craned her neck to peer at the back of his strong hand, the temporary mask concealing the right side of his face. Ashamed by even this slight transgression on his fierce privacy, she left the bedside and sat stiffly in his desk chair, looking over the papers that littered the surface of his dusty tableau. Most of the parchment was crumpled and torn, some of it even charred at the edges. A fine layer of soot decorated every shred of the rumpled clutter, smearing words and staining the paper. One charred slip of parchment caught her eye and she removed it from the pile curiously, smoothing it as she turned it in her hands. Gasping, she starred at her own scorched face, the image sketched painstakingly in rough pencil and lovingly blended with a steady fingertip. Dropping her drawing and reaching for a crumpled ball of scorched paper, she eased open its folds and stared, transfixed as another burnt image of herself was revealed in her hands. "You tried to burn them," she thought bitterly, remembering her crushing betrayal.

* * *

Christine was deathly afraid as she walked out before the audience, nervously fidgeting with the red rose she was holding in her shaking hands, ripping the soft petals between her fingers. When she heard his voice behind her the heart seemed to almost burst in her chest, consuming her body in flames as his deep tones swept through her. His heavenly voice was full of a lust she had never known or had any conception of until he had invaded her with that dangerous song. And she felt herself drawn to the dark Angel, feverish with the desire to abruptly pull him to her and unabashed, share with him all that he offered – the alluring mystery of passion.

_Past all thought of right or wrong -_

_One final question:_

_How long should to wait before we're one?_

_When will the blood begin to rise,_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us?_

The Phantom filled her senses with contradiction: the vast dichotomy between what her mind knew she had to do and her presumably foolish heart willed her to do. As he ran his strong hand across her body she could feel her mind succumbing to her heart, defeated by the power of his tone and agony betrayed by his fervent touch.

_Past the point of no return -_

_The final threshold._

_The bridge is crossed,_

_So stand and watch it burn._

_We've passed the point of no return._

She no longer felt the eyes of hundreds of anxious Parisians on her. She gave herself to his touch, arching back to press her body to his muscular chest. And then her mind, out of its naïve depths, drew out a question that ruined it all, her world and his. "And what of Raoul?" The blissful illusion shattered around her as her conscious out-screamed her heart and the unflinching wall of responsibility loomed above her, poisoning her dreams.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_Lead me, save me from my solitude._

The Phantom enveloped her in his powerful arms as he began to sing to her a new song – not a song of hard lust or flaming physical passion, but a song of constancy, devotion and the very ideals she knew she would soon forsake him for. Her heart pounding, pouring rain on the roof of a cold prison, she steeled herself for what her mind told her she had to do. Christine reached out her hand to caress the Phantom's smooth cheek as he stared into her eyes with a vast longing, almost whispering the sweet song Raoul had so recently wooed her with on the rooftop of the Opera.

_Say you'll want me with you here beside you._

And as she moved her shaking hand to pull away his façade in front of a hundred unmarred faces, the means by which he protected himself from the cruelty of the world, she saw a flicker of painful understanding cross his piercing blue gaze.

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

Christine's heart cried to her, pleading with her as she ripped away his mask and obliterated all of him, simultaneously betraying her own aching heart.

_Christine, that's all I ask of –_

_

* * *

_

Tears ran down her face as she wrapped her arms around herself, shaking uncontrollably. "You knew it all along," her reason spoke to her, embittered by years of cold neglect and agonizing remorse. "You knew it from the moment you tore the mask from his devastated face and your heart broke inside your chest." Standing gracelessly, she made her way to the bedside of her Angel and impulsively reached out with her trembling hand to stroke his face. The stolen contact almost burned her and she winced, disgrace breaking over her like roaring water. Running her forefinger from his refined eyebrow to strong jaw, she smiled helplessly through her tears. She knew that true redemption was beyond her; the dishonor of her cruel betrayal was unforgivable.

Christine drew her hand to her mouth and lightly kissed the palm, reaching over to place the chaste kiss on her Phantom's face, pressing it into his skin as he slept and guilty tears stained her countenance. Sobbing softly, she pleaded with his closed eyes, begging for the forgiveness she knew she did not deserve, nor ever would. "I am sorry, my angel, I am sorry. My beautiful Phantom, forgive me."

* * *

He woke with a start, his eyes jolting open to find his vision clear. "A dream, nothing more," he whispered softly. And then, abruptly issuing a sharp gasp, he saw her.

Christine lay half across the foot of his bed, her slender legs still resting on the floor as she knelt at his feet. Her dark hair spread across the covers like ringlets of fine lace as she breathed in slowly, her eyelashes like haloes on her faintly flushed cheeks as she slept. His breath was caught in his throat as he blatantly stared at her, bolts of shock flashing through his body, head to fingertips to toes. The Phantom reeled in her presence, completely overwhelmed as he awoke to find that his nighttime dreams had finally escaped into reality. "Not a dream, it was not a dream," he thought frantically, trying to breath calmly despite himself. As Erik struggled to regain his scattered composure he paused, the jarring memories of the preceding night stretching out before him like a mural. "I fell," he mused scornfully, cursing his weakness. Shaking hand held tight to his drawn face, he quietly rose and made his way around the bedside to anxiously lean over Christine, willing himself not to breath in her intoxicatingly sweet scent. "Jasmine and roses on a midsummer's night," he thought, the fragrance filling his lungs as he remembered every excruciating moment of her.

Christine's eyelashes fluttered against luxurious silk as she slowly stirred into consciousness. Breathing in deeply the uncommon, spicy aroma of the Phantom's cavernous home, she chided herself for irresponsibly falling asleep and eased opened her eyes.


	6. Bruit Inutile

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Six: Bruit Inutile**

She was gone. Raoul sat on the empty bed, hands flat on the mattress as he stared listlessly at the wall. She was gone. He stood suddenly, grabbing the warm cup of tea he had placed at her bedside before noting her absence and hurling it across the silent bedroom so that is smashed against the wallpaper, the porcelain shattering in sharp white shards. The tea slowly dripped down the wall, the gilded paper rippling under it as the elaborate pattern blurred, a tearstain. "This house is crying," Raoul said calmly as he watched the wallpaper dye slowly run, his own stable voice frightening him almost as much as the madness in his meaningless words.

"I always hated this room," he spoke to the darkness, half expecting it to answer him. "Her bedroom," the Vicomte murmured, rubbing his hands on the soft coverlet as he sat on her bed. He had known it was over as soon as she had left their bedroom for the isolation of her old room – the bedroom she had slept in when she first came to stay in the Château de Chagny over two years ago, after the dreadful affair at the Opera Populaire. Raoul shook his head, bitterly amused by his own weak denial. No, he had known it before that. It had come to him their wedding night, brutal and unapologetic. As he moved on top of her in the heavy silence of their room, the suffocating softness of their wedding bed, the thought had struck him as undeniably as a blacksmith's unflinching strike on the iron. "She is crying," he had thought, feeling a salty wetness that did not belong to his eyes on his face.

"She is crying for _him_," he had realized, painful understanding dawning on him until he winced, even as they made love for the first time. She didn't have to say it. Raoul had pulled back from her naked body to stare down upon her face and her beautiful eyes had not met his. Christine stared over his shoulder as he moved on top of her, gazing up at the ceiling or perhaps the sky while they joined, tears running down her pale cheeks. He had shuddered at that look, an distant expression caught somewhere between regret at agony.

"No," he said softly, rising to pace across the room. "No, you knew even before that." He had known as Christine clung to him, nails fiercely digging into his soaking shoulders as he guided the boat away from the Phantom's lair and through the dark tunnels of his underworld. Raoul bitterly remembered that he had rejoiced at first, inwardly ecstatic that they had at last escaped the grips of a madman. But then he had noticed it – as the boat pulled away she turned from him to stare back at the madness they had just fled. The Phantom stood on the shore and Christine almost pulled away from his drenched body, leaning back to her captor as a rose leans towards the sun. And he knew.

"And yet you married her," Raoul admitted, amazed at his own blindness. His own hollow denial – his foolish belief in the transformative power of his love. Again he rose to feverishly make his way around the confines of his wife's lonely bedroom, looking for something to destroy. Her mirror. Grabbing her ivory hairbrush, he broke the glass, the cracks dividing his unusually haggard face into a million segments. Raoul dropped the hairbrush and stared at his clenched fists in distress. "Is this the behavior of a Vicomte, a patron?" he spat at himself, ashamed of his lack of control.

He looked up at the broken mirror and shuddered compulsively. "I love her," he muttered uselessly, disgusted with his foolish vulnerability. An unwanted memory flashed through his mind and the Vicomte cried out in blind fury, smashing his hand down on the bureau into the shards of broken glass. The mask. A dark keepsake he had desperately forced from his mind since he had discovered it in her drawers, hidden among her undergarments of all things – the only true evidence he ever found of her betrayal. Of her desire. The Phantom's mask.

Raoul looked thoughtfully at his bleeding palms, the torn skin full of slivers of reflective glass and deep red blood. "She is gone," he told himself calmly, making no move to extract the shards from his ragged flesh.

* * *

Her eyes were open. Erik stared, caught in the intensity of her deep brown eyes. They locked him in silence, suspending reality and freezing the world around him, instantaneously confining him in their gaze. Christine's dark eyes had fluttered open under long lashes, delicate as butterfly wings, to unveil a weapon so seductively destructive that he was amazed he could have forgotten. Her eyes were like deceptive quicksand and he was rapidly drowning in their innocent depths as she stared at him, face pale and dubious. Erik moved his lips to form words, any words, but no sound came out, and he knew that in his astonishment he had forgotten to draw any breath with which to fuel his tongue.

Her Angel of Music stood above her, gaping as he stared down into her face with his piercing blue eyes, transfixed. His muscles were tense and eyes wide with outright incredulity; she found herself paralyzed. He spoke first and Christine watched with amazement as his full lips moved to form the words, breaking the taught silence that almost reverberated in the air around them with his mesmerizing voice. The voice that had haunted her dreams and days for over two years.

"Vicomtess de Chagny. What, pray-tell, are you doing in my humble estate?" Erik choked out, forcing the air through his teeth like a hiss as Christine looked up at him, clearly terrified by her mere proximity to his monstrous form. Christine. He filled the words with all the coldness he could muster, desperately trying to disguise any indications of hope that could unforgivably seep into his voice. He forced his distorted features into a cruel and hollow smile as she visibly flinched at the stinging venom filling his question. Or perhaps at the monstrosity of what she knew to be hidden beneath his shaking hand.

Christine stuttered uncontrollably in response, all hold of her vocal cords fleeing her as doubt filled her mind and warm blood rushed to her face. His expression was nothing short of devastating; all her hopeful expectations dissolved into nothing as she was struck by the intensity of the apparent loathing in his eyes. Seemingly amused by her embarrassing inability to properly articulate, her Angel let loose a bitter chuckle, the sound so grating and metallic that she again pulled back in dismay.

"What is it, _Vicomtess_, disgusted by the Phantom? Horrified? I do not recall inviting _your _critique, so I suggest you leave," he stated forcefully, gesturing with a stiff movement to the maze of caverns that would eventually lead her out even as his heart screamed at him a thousand commands, each more inconceivable than the last.

Carefully controlling his voice, Erik desperately issued a sharp, commanding statement, hoping to at least shock the entrancing intensity from her tearing eyes. "Depart, Madame. Your intrusion is unwelcome here." Again, she flinched at the ugliness of his words, her wane face contorting with fear. He helplessly stared, captured by the beauty of her expression – the pain, the terror. His Angel's fair visage betrayed emotion with such clarity that he found himself ashamed to look on her, terrified of invading her privacy with only his gaze. Shaking the feelings of immense pity and desperate longing from his mind with a brusque movement of his head, he turned from her to walk away, leaving her still lying half across the foot of his wide bed. The foot of the bed he had brought her for her. His aching body willed him to rush to her, covering her quivering mouth with his own and banishing the lingering demons of their past with a kiss.

"Phantom," she whispered, and he could hear her get to her feet behind him. Erik trembled as the epithet left her lips, her angelic voice strained but soft in his ears. The word was like a drug; he felt what little resolve he had begin to melt into nothing as the melodious quality of her voice swept through him. He frantically tried to still his body, tightening his muscles and presenting her only with his broad back, swathed immaculately in white muslin, even as he felt his composure crumble within him, imploding. Christine drew closer and he could visualize her in his mind – the elegance of her neck and the unblemished alabaster of her complexion as she stared at his back in what he imagined to be abject horror. "Phantom, do not turn from me," she pleaded inexplicably, her tone high and hysterical as she forced the sound from her lips.

The Phantom whirled on her, trying anxiously to disguise hopeful surprise with searing contempt while his hand still clung tightly to his visage. "Do not _turn_ from you? Oh no, what right would I have to turn my back on a viper, a vicious minx who betrayed me before the world? I apologize, Vicomtess, for any offense I have mistakenly inflicted," he hissed between bared teeth, advancing on the startled beauty as she stumbled back, expression a dark manifestation of terror. Internally Erik cried out as she tripped on the uneven floor, every nerve in his body willing him to sweep her into the safety of his embrace, to protect her from the cruel truth of the bitter words he had just spoken. His scathing mind reprimanded his weakness, ashamed of the desires his heart sang in the name of the deceptive vixen, the cruel beauty.

"I… I… forgive me, Angel," Christine stammered, gracelessly falling back to catch herself on the foot of the swan bed she had once peacefully lay in as her Angel of Music sang to her in her sleep. He stopped dead as anger flooded him, overwhelming the cries of his feverish heart, and a horrific smile spreading across his face, twisting it even beneath the cover of his hand.

"Angel? _Angel?_ I do beg _your_ forgiveness, Vicomtess, but perhaps you have forgotten what I am – no, not an angel, but a Devil's child. A lonely gargoyle, remember? We who are horrifically captured in unflinching granite do not _forgive_," he spat at her, hoarse voice saturated with searing cynicism. "Our only talent, Vicomtess, is to terrify approaching demons with the abomination of our twisted presence. There is no forgiveness from monsters, murderers, gargoyles_._" Christine stared at him with wide eyes, horrified, as the elegantly clothed, immaculately composed man descended into hysteria, roaring at her in an immobilizing rage. As Erik watched Christine's face drain of all blood, he felt burning tears begin to threaten his eyes, slowly advancing as he fought them off, desperate not to crack in front of her. "GO," he roared ferociously, "Go now!"

The intensity of his command struck her in the face like a stinging slap and Christine jolted from the bed, an indignant and alien anger slowly flooding her senses. "How dare he?" she thought scathingly, staring at the Phantom in growing outrage as he turned from her again, shunning her like an insolent child. "Threatened my husband, kidnapped me from my dressing room, made me choose between love and life, and he derides me, spits hatred at _me_." Abandoning silly fear and sillier decorum, Christine strode forward and placed a firm hand on the intimidating man's tense shoulder, forcefully wrenching him around to face her, overwhelmed by the power of her own fury.

"You are welcome, Monsieur, for the care. You are so gracious to thank me, but now I am afraid I must leave you to your own devices. It is comforting to see that at least one of us has not changed a bit in two years. That one of us has not become accustomed with dignity. I find constancy so reassuring, don't you? Now, adieu, Monsieur. I hope you do not make fainting a habit. Weakness is not becoming in a man." Before the Phantom could so much as draw a breath, she turned on her heel and marched from the room into the dark chasms of his sad domain. The echoes of her footsteps slowly faded into nothing and Erik was left standing alone in the wreckage of his alcove, hand still concealing the monstrosity of his scarred visage.

Shocked, Erik let his quivering hand drop to his side and stared after her in disbelief. "What in the hell was that? _Who_ was that?" he whispered hoarsely, shocked by his estranged pupil's uncharacteristic audacity. By the sheer nerve of that insolent girl. By her courage.

"Good God," he breathed, no longer sure whether to be insulted or impressed by the commanding, if uncharacteristic display of outrage he had just been privy to. His heart was violently beating in his chest and his hands shook violently at his sides. Erik could literally feel her hot rage coursing through him, stripping him of all control as his body went into hysterics. Her outburst inflamed him. Stumbling to the bed, he sat down and placed his hands firmly at his sides, willing himself into a fragile control over the adrenaline rushing through his limbs and speeding the rhythm of his pounding heart.

* * *

"That fool, that stubborn fool," Christine screamed into the empty Opera, pulse raging and face red with indignation. "Idiot." Her hysterical voice echoed throughout the fading grandeur of the theatre as she stormed towards the door, eager for the cooling air of night to wash over her burning face. Christine burst through the entrance, stepping out onto the sweeping steps to let a cold spring breeze gently soothe her heated resentment. She looked out over the lights of Paris as she heaved in the cold air. The stars spread across the clear night sky, almost reflecting the bright Parisian panorama. She drew a slow breath and smoothed her wrinkled dress. The anger of a few moments before died as quickly as it had been born and Christine was left with a overwhelming sense of perplexed amazement.

Struck with the undeniable weight of what had just transpired, Christine's blanched. Even fury could not cloud the miraculous fortune of her discovery and relief flooded her, filling the space in her heart left by heated anger. "You're alive," she whispered to the night. "Alive." The amazed girl brought her shaking hand to her pale face to cradle her cheek with the palm that had so recently been clamped on the shoulder of her estranged Angel, her Phantom. Her eyes closed as her mind raced. His angry face appeared in her conscious, his noble lips forming the words "GO" as his eyes filled with something akin to hatred. "He hates me," she thought. "And rightfully so." She felt persistent tears well beneath her eyelids, finally escaping through her lashes to streak her cheeks and fill her trembling palm.

_Angel of Music, hide no longer._

_Come to me strange Angel…_

_

* * *

_

"Cursed beast, agonizing fool. She is there, on the foot of your bed, and you deride her, throwing insults at her like rotten fruit, covering her in your own filthy rage," he yelled at no one, throwing aside a lit candelabra. "'Do not turn, Angel – forgive me' she says, and you, like un bâtard, dismiss her." Erik clawed at his face, disgusted by his unforgivable immaturity, his disgraceful petulance.

Erik paused to stare down at the rumpled bed that she had been sprawled across just minutes before and softly cried out, falling to his knees. He lay across the coverlet, pulling the soft fabric into his arms as if it still held her sleeping form. "Christine," he choked into the blanket, unwanted tears pricking in his eyes. "Forgive me."

Suddenly, he froze. Pulling the smooth velvet from his contorted face and dropping it to the floor, he stared at his hands in disbelief. "Forgive me?" the Phantom repeated, his voice full of loathing. "Forgive _me?_" Jumping to his feet in one motion, he raced to his desk and stared down at the charred fragments of her face, the careful renderings of her he had documented on paper day after day only two years prior. "No," he said coldly. "No, Vicomtess. You shall not have me." Sweeping the debris of his artwork from his tableau, he cursed his own weakness. "So easily forgotten, Erik, the strength of two years labors? So easily discarded in the wake of one word, one glance from a vicious beauty?" he hissed, running his hands over his rumpled attire, composing himself. "Not so easily, manipulative wench. Not this time," he spat at the crumpled drawings.

She stared up at him from the stone floor, details blurred but wide eyes still pleading, begging him with deceptive innocence. Face twisting with repugnance, the Phantom placed a firm boot over Christine's beautifully captured visage and breathed through his teeth, "I do not love you." Whirling to face the dark reaches of his domain he screamed, "I DO NOT LOVE YOU. I HAVE NEVER LOVED YOU." The stone confines of his underworld sang back at him, denying him any love with haunting resonance as the world again fell into swift darkness and he crumpled to the cold floor.

* * *

Raoul opened the heavy doors to find Christine standing in the brightening light of dawn, hair reflecting the subtle pink and orange of the waking sun. Her pale face was painted with fear as she avoided his gaze and contrarily stared over his shoulder into the darkness of the vast residence.

"Bonjour, Vicomtess," he said coldly, not moving to allow her entrance to the grand château. Vaguely impressed at the depth of the resentment soaking her husband's usually bland tone, Christine looked up and met his strained gaze.

"Raoul, I –," she began calmly, but he cut her off, slamming a clenched fist into the open door.

"What, what? Excuses? Apologies? Too late, Christine. I fear I have grown tired of your hollow love, my dear," he said, handsome face taught with intense abhorrence. Christine prickled at his condescending venom, too frustrated and too tired to grovel now. She placed one firm hand on the door and threw it open with all her weight, catching Raoul off-guard with her uncharacteristic audacity.

"Of course, my love. And I have grown too weary of your monotony," she spat, the sincerity of her cruelty actually surprising her as Raoul's mouth dropped open and the door slammed shut, excluding the soft light of dawn and leaving them to fight in suffocating darkness. He let loose a bitter laugh, the sound almost saturated in bitter antipathy.

"Monotony? At least that implies some level of constancy! You promised me love but instead you have offered me distance, resentment. Shame. And for what? For loving you?" he yelled in her face, pale blue eyes narrow with vehement rage. Lips pulling back in a gruesome sneer he let loose the final insult, stinging and low. "Pute!" Overcome with blind fury, Christine whipped her palm across his face, the sound of her slap ringing in her ears as she yelled.

"Pute? Un pute? You call me a bitch, a slut? You arrogant pig. You mindless fool." Christine's voice was low with malice as she stared into the shocked face of her husband, face pale and eyes wild with rage. "I left everything for you. The Opera, Paris, the Pha-,"

"The Phantom? Oh, heaven forbid you should escape a monster, a madman for the comforts of my home. Foolish girl. I offered you everything and you said yes. You! Who is to blame? Who, Christine? Me?" he said coldly. The words washed over her like frigid water and she blanched, eyes going blank as the veracity of his question struck her dumb. He was right. What was she doing? What right had she for anger, when all the pain she had felt she had inflicted upon herself? Upon him? She looked into his eyes, tears brimming under her dark lashes, and fell to her knees on the marble floor of the entryway.

"No, Raoul." she whispered, the words almost inaudible even in the crushing silence of the dimly lit room. "Me."

Taken aback by her frankness, Raoul paused, angry words held in his mouth as he looked down into her dark curls. Christine's regret was painfully apparent, almost embarrassingly blatant. The Vicomte felt his fury weaken within him and die. "Who was to blame?" he asked himself silently, staring down at the shaking form of the woman he had loved for most of his life. Hesitating for a painfully silent minute, he finally abandoned his fierce pride and gracelessly knelt beside his crying wife, saying softly, "No, you are not to blame. We are all to blame." Christine looked up at him, eyes full of heart-breaking affection he couldn't remember seeing in the last two years. A look of deep gratitude crossed her face and a small cry rose in her throat.

"Oh, Raoul," she gasped, falling forward into his tense arms. "Forgive me, forgive me."

He stiffened against her, shaken by her transformation. As he felt her shake against his chest, shoulders heaving with dry sobs, he softened and let her fall into his embrace. Raoul gently stroked her dark hair as a feeling of strange catharsis washed over him, slowing his heartbeat and easing away the tension of two long years of dissatisfaction, of distance.

"I love you," he said sadly, holding her close to his chest as she continued to draw uneven breaths of air, shoulders shaking. Christine looked up at him, tears solemnly decorating the pristine paleness of her raw cheeks.

"I love you, dear friend. I always have." He nodded as he felt helpless tears begin to run down his cheeks. Christine hesitated only slightly before reaching up to wipe away the tears with a shaking hand. "I wasn't lying when I said I love you," she whispered as she caressed his face, her voice full of regret. "I never lied when I told you that."

"I know," he mumbled, grabbing her hand with his own and holding it to his cheek as his eyes closed. Smiling sadly, he whispered into her dark curls. "But it wasn't enough." She let loose a deep sob and clung to him. Raoul returned the intensity of her embrace and rested his face in her hair, letting the finality of this moment wash over him. The finality of this embrace. "You must go to him," he finally said, his voice betraying a vast sorrow as the hopeless words escaped his lips. She went rigid in his arms, pulling back to stare him in the face, brown eyes full of astonishment.

"You love him." Christine's mouth fell open as she watched her husband, the love of her childhood, willingly relinquish his rightful claim to her heart in three simple words. "You love him." Raoul placed a gentle kiss on her furrowed brow as she stared at him in utter disbelief. Salty tears running over his handsome face in torrents, he pulled back to gaze into her lovely face. She mouthed wordlessly at him, eyes full of gratitude but also tormenting guilt. Raoul leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her quivering lips, silencing any apology she could feebly offer. "I forgive you," he said, his lips brushing hers as the words left his proud mouth. Christine wrapped her arms around her husband and returned the kiss, all the missing intimacy of two years silence poured into the bittersweet meeting of their lips.

Raoul pulled back, the taste of her indelibly staining his mouth, and ran a shaking hand along her pale countenance, struck by his wife's sad beauty for what seemed to be the first time in two years. "Now go," he murmured gently. "Go."


	7. Desertions

_**Resonance **_**by sheshakes**

**Chapter Seven: Desertions**

Erik jolted from the divan, blue eyes flying open as he felt someone attempt to remove his hand from his face. He violently lashed out with his arm, putting all his force into its path.

"Stop!" cried Madame Giry forcefully, blocking his blow with her ever-present black cane. "Erik, it's me!"

The Phantom stopped dead as his forearm struck the dark staff. He stared into the face of his old friend, enraged. Her slate eyes narrowed as her gaze met with his. "I have no time for your melodrama," she spat, infusing her stare with scorn. Erik's noble lips pull back in a disgusted sneer as he lowered his arm and sat back on the divan, hand still held to his face.

"Why are you here, Antoinette?" he muttered angrily as she set the cane down next to the piano bench she was stiffly seated on. She ignored his tenacity and dipped a cloth in the large basin of clean water at her side, stubborn to a fault. Reaching out to his face with the damp cloth, she met his gaze again as he ducked away from her hand and sighed heavily in exasperation.

"No one is here to see it but me." Erik grimaced with displeasure and very slowly dropped his hand from his face, watching her carefully for any reaction. She didn't even flinch as his deformity presented itself to her. Clucking softly, she extended the cloth to softly caress his burning forehead. Erik stared at her sullenly until she begrudgingly conceded and dropped the damp cloth into the bowl with a splash. "Besides, you look like a damn fool with your hand clapped to your face all the time," she said in mocking solemnity, corners of her mouth twitching slightly with amusement. He growled in aggravation, rising stiffly from the divan.

"Well? Why are you here?" Erik said coldly, throwing her a scathing glance as he struggled to straighten his disheveled clothing with shaking hands.

"I just came back to check on you. And found you sprawled out on the floor, again," she replied, a hint of sardonic amusement seeping into her tone. "People seem to be passing out right and left these days." His eyes narrowed as he watched Madame Giry break into a rare and timid smile, obviously tickled by his recent susceptibility to inconvenient fainting spells.

"I am quite all right, I assure you, Madame," he growled in irritation, prickling at her mocking implication.

"Oh, don't be a beast. It's been two years, for the love of God!" Madame Giry rose from the stool and walked to Erik's side, reaching out to tentatively touch his smooth face. "I've missed you," she murmured quietly, embarrassed as she felt warm blood rush to her pale cheeks. Erik's cold gaze softened instantly and he tentatively brought his hand to his face to cover hers, an apology in his piercing eyes.

"I've missed you too, Antoinette," he mumbled gruffly, quickly turning away from her touch and warm gaze. Letting him move, Madame Giry considered him thoughtfully, her calculating eyes scrutinizing her old friend.

"Where have you been?" she asked, dropping all silly guise of formality in the wake of curiosity. He fidgeted uncomfortably with his sleeves, pacing slightly around the stone floor without looking at her. Erik sighed heavily, bringing a hand to his face to rub his chin nervously as he struggled to think of what to say. "He looks older," Madame Giry thought, surprised to note any change in the man she had come to think of as almost immortal. His eyes were tired, the blue almost faded with hopelessness, and his face had fine lines that she did not remember being there only two years ago. Erik moved to again sit on the divan, his body communicating the strong exhaustion he felt weighing down his entire being.

"Abroad," he said tiredly, trying to resist the urge to cover his face as Madame Giry took her seat on the piano bench, facing him. She was silent, but he saw the unspoken questions raging in her sharp eyes and he knew her wits not dulled a bit in the last two years. "London," he said shortly, annoyed by her prying slate gaze. Antoinette nodded slightly, considering the information for a moment before she pressed for more.

"Why did you come back?" she asked hesitantly, discouraged by the guarded expression on the Phantom's bare face. She tried to meet his eyes but found it impossible; he averted her attempt by glancing around the dimly lit room. He coughed slightly, trying desperately to decide _what_ to tell his old friend. And what not to.

"I felt compelled," he stated bluntly, everything in his tone implying that this was the conclusive statement to the conversation. Not satisfied, but knowing better than to pursue the subject further, Madame Giry sat back on the hard piano bench, tapping her fingers along the ivory handle of her cane in frustration. Erik glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to still the pathetic questions that rose within his own silly heart. At the same time, Madame Giry looked at him and their eyes met. She read the questions in his intense stare and smiled wryly, her slate eyes soft with compassion.

"She went back to the Château de Chagny, and no, I haven't spoken to her. Although if you were the insufferable brute I expect you were, I'm fairly certain I know what she'd say if I had, Monsieur." He winced at the jab, pride suffering slightly as his old friend appraised the situation so accurately. So brutally. Erik brought a hand to his eyes, leaning his creased brow against his palm in defeat. "I hope she gave you a good tongue-lashing, as I'm sure you deserved it," Madame Giry said sternly, purposely offering little comfort to the man before her. She watched as his broad shoulders began to shake, both compelled to console him in his misery and deride him for his stubborn nature. He suddenly dropped his hand from his eyes and looked up at her, eyes fiercely blue even beneath the blur of persistent tears.

"Do you blame me?" he spat angrily, "can you blame me for hating her?" Madame Giry met his pleading stare with one of resigned inflexibility. She shook her head slightly, eyes full of gentle reproof.

"No, I cannot blame you for that. But, I think it is a lie, old friend," she murmured truthfully, never breaking eye contact with the Phantom. He paused only momentarily before letting loose a cold chuckle, hollow and desperate. She winced at the artificiality of the sound, the contrived nature of its origin. In that moment of hesitation she had seen everything she had expected to, and she knew the truth behind the agonized laugh of her friend.

"A lie? No! I detest her, Madame Giry. I hate her with all I have," Erik cried angrily, deep voice full of furious despair as the tears began to escape his blue eyes and streak his pale cheeks, an unstoppable flow of honesty on the face of deception.

"I'm sure you do, my friend. But you also love her," she said softly, unfazed by the intimidating emotion of the man staring her down with livid eyes and a taught countenance. Erik cried out at her words, the sound almost inhuman in the depth of its suffering, impulsively grabbing her by the shoulders with such force that she almost fell from the piano bench.

"I do not love her," he cried hysterically, shaking her as he violently pulled her within an inch of his face. Even as his nails bit painfully into her skin, Antoinette continued to stare coldly into his tearing blue eyes. "Never! I DO NOT LOVE HER." Erik began to sob as he yelled and his deep voice cracked as he forced the desperate lie from his lips again and again. "I DO NOT LOVE HER!" Madame Giry stared at him, her gray eyes full of an immense pity. She reached out to stroke his wet cheek with one shaking hand, her fingers sliding in his desperate tears. He stopped yelling as she touched him, shocked by the contact and the only sounds in the room were the wracking gasps of his breath as he shook under her hand. Antoinette leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his ravaged cheek and he cried out in horror, wrenching himself away from her mouth as he whipped his hand to his deformed visage. She watched him cower on the divan with salty tears pricking in her cold eyes, amazed at the depth of his misery, of his pain.

"You love her," she whispered sadly, turning away from the devastated man to look out over the dark lake. "You love her."

* * *

Madame Giry slowly made her way home, the spring breeze feeling frigid despite the clean sunlight. She shook her head at the cobblestones, trying to get her mind off of her visit to the Phantom. "My poor friend," she thought sadly, the image of his proud face streaked with tears clinging to her mind like a stain. "Such a fool."

She started slightly, hands tightening around the ivory handle of her cane as she approached her humble mason. Gripping her cane, Antoinette quickened her pace, positive that she knew exactly who it was she could just make out sitting dejectedly on her stoop. As she drew closer her suspicions were confirmed. The Vicomtess de Chagny was perched on her bottom step, fidgeting nervously with the large bag she held in her lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Vicomtess?" Madame Giry asked wryly, certain she already had some idea of the answer. The girl jerked in surprise and looked up to find the kind gaze of her old mistress upon her. Christine's frightened face eased into an expression of guarded apprehension as Madame Giry made her way up the steps, beckoning her to follow without bothering to wait for a reply. Stuttering slightly, Christine grabbed her heavy bag and lugged it up the stairs, the bottom dragging with weight. She pulled her bag inside the house and Madame Giry closed the door behind her, gesturing that she should leave her things in the hall. Christine followed the older woman into the kitchen, where she watched as her patron busied herself with the teakettle without so much as looking at her guest.

"Madame Giry, I apologize. This is dreadful of me, but I was hoping if… well." Christine trailed off, unsure of how to properly ask a favor of her old ballet mistress, who had already given her a lifetime's worth of help. Madame Giry turned to set a steaming pot of tea on the table and sat. She rested her chin on her hand as she silently appraised her former pupil.

"You need a place to stay?" she asked coolly, ignoring the surprise that lit across Christine's face. The startled girl nodded abashedly, avoiding the older woman's knowing look. "Of course. You may have the spare room. It's quite small, but I'm sure you'll find it adequate. Now, have some tea," Antoinette said efficiently, clearly unfazed by the unusual request of her dignified young friend. Gesturing to the empty chair at the table, she began to pour tea and sugar into two rather worn cups. Christine gratefully sat and took the cup, sipping at the steaming liquid with a sigh of relief. She glanced at her stern companion discreetly as she nursed the hot tea, thankful to still have a friend here after all this time.

"Aren't you going to ask why–," Christine began before Madame Giry cut her off with a shake of her head.

"I already know why," she murmured, looking thoughtfully at the young girl over her steaming tea. "Erik." Christine coughed into the hot liquid, choking slightly as she struggled to swallow.

"Erik?" she asked timidly, already suspecting she knew exactly whom the name belonged to. Madame Giry met her alarmed look and nodded slightly, reading the unspoken question in the Vicomtess's pale face.

"Oui, your Phantom," Madame Giry said bluntly, waiting for her guest's reaction to the new information. Christine carefully set down her tea on the table and tentatively tried the name on her tongue for the first time.

"Erik…" she murmured softly, the syllables strangely right as they rolled over her tongue to slip through her lips like a hesitant caress. "His name is Erik."

"Oui. Doesn't suit him if you ask me," Madame Giry muttered gruffly, sipping her tea to hide the small smile creeping across her lips as she watched Christine whisper his name under her breath, eyes distant. Suddenly, Christine's gaze snapped into focus and she looked at Madame Giry with doubt coloring her pale countenance.

"What are you implying, Madame?" she asked defensively, rising from the table to stand with her hands on her hips as she looked into the face of her old friend. Madame Giry merely chuckled, placing her empty teacup on the table and giving Christine an exasperated look.

"I do not know, my dear. What am I implying?" Antoinette's eyes seemed to wink as Christine met her knowing look with one of acute embarrassment. "If you love him you love him, Christine. C'est la vie," she said bluntly, smiling affectionately at her blushing guest. Christine avoided her gaze now, returning to her seat at the table and sipping nervously at her cooling tea. Madame Giry put a firm hand on her shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"He loves you. Go to him when you are ready, chéri. Patience," she urged quietly, feeling Christine stiffen under her hand. "There is no shame in loving Erik," she said finally, rising to turn away from her young guest and look out the window, expression wistful. "No shame at all."

* * *

Christine sat on the modest bed and looked around the dimly lit guest room, trying to ignore the fraying curtains and dust that clung to every surface. "What am I doing here?" she said to herself quietly, her voice out of place in the somber space. She sighed heavily and fell back on the bed, dark curls spreading across the thin comforter as she stared at the ceiling. A spattering of water stains met her gaze and Christine closed her eyes, ashamed to be relying on the kindness of her already struggling friends. In the pitch black she saw his face, the white mask she had known so well regarding her with sinister longing. Her eyes snapped open and she shuddered compulsively, rolling on her side and holding her legs to her chest. "Poor Raoul," she murmured, lightly running her fingers over the worn fabric of the coverlet. She found that despite this small vocalization of sympathy for her husband, she honestly felt little remorse for their recent confrontation and her ensuing departure.

The spring sun was high outside, but Christine had drawn the musty curtains over the small window of the room, willing it to be night. Day was too long, too cognitive. During her marriage to Raoul, Christine had found herself growing increasingly fond of silent night, until it came to the point that, to her surprise, she preferred it to garish day. She found sunlight overbearing – intrusive, so she blocked it out.

Christine rose to lean over and grasp her bulging travel bag, pulling it onto the bed with her. She sat up and rifled through the clutter of possessions she had thrown in it at random, looking for the one thing she had brought that was of any true importance to her. The Phantom's mask revealed itself and she pulled it from the morass, brushing her fingers over its smooth white surface as if to clean of nonexistent dirt, presumably acquired during her short voyage to Madame Giry's humble mason. The empty eye stared at her in mournful reprimand, as if the mask was sadly scolding her for her unusually rash behavior as of late.

"I suppose I'll have to return you eventually," she whispered hoarsely, placing the mask on the dusty bedside nightstand. "Your master will be pleased to see you, I think. But, I do not know if he will be pleased to see me," she said sadly, looking away from the mask's hollow gaze. Christine felt unwanted tears swell in her eyes and she closed them, finding that familiar face waiting in the blind darkness. "Erik," she murmured, tightly wrapping her arms around herself and wishing for thoughtless sleep to descend.

* * *

"Where is Christine now?" Meg asked, glancing around the kitchen as if her old friend were going to materialize out of nothing. Madame Giry gestured to the guest bedroom down the short hall, but stopped Meg from running to it with a firm hand.

"No, little one. She needs rest," she said sternly, eyeing her headstrong daughter. Meg sat at the table, knowing by now that it was useless to argue with her rigid mother. Madame Giry was impeccably stubborn and although Meg was a willful girl, she knew quite well that she would never be able to sway her mother once she had made a decision. "Christine has much she needs to think through," Madame Giry stated brusquely, sitting stiffly next to her daughter at the table. "We must give her time."

"Maman, why is she here? Why would she leave the Vicomte?" Meg inquired incredulously, fidgeting with one of her many blonde curls. Madame Giry shot Meg a reprimanding look that immediately made her drop her hand to the table.

"I don't think she even knows," she muttered shortly, blatantly ignoring Meg's frustrated groan. Madame Giry sighed, saying quietly, "Raoul could not make her happy." Meg threw her mother a puzzled look, her eyes holding questions she desperately wanted to ask, however unwelcome they proved to be.

"Does it have to do with the Phantom of the Opera?" she asked casually, quietly persisting despite the discouraging expression on her mother's tense face. "Come on, Maman. You have to tell me something," she sighed in exasperation, almost rolling her eyes in her irritation. Madame Giry paused, tapping her fingers thoughtfully along the ivory handle of her cane. She eyed Meg, unsure, and was greeted with a pleading gaze from her daughter's deceptively angelic eyes.

"Oui, little one, I think so. But do not repeat what I have said to anyone. Agreed?" Antoinette said seriously, making sure to impart to Meg the importance of her discretion with a steadily stern look.

"Agreed," Meg replied, obviously aching to ask more but knowing better.

* * *

Erik stumbled, tripping over nothing and landing heavily on the stone floor. He cursed, throwing aside the nearly empty bottle of whiskey he had clasped in his hand. The large flask shattered loudly, filling the cave with sharp resonance. The shards of glass scattered over the floor of Christine's empty bedroom, reflecting mockingly at him in the candlelight. The image blurred out of focus as he tried to stand, stumbling again to catch himself on the edge of the golden swan.

"Pathetic fool," he spat angrily, resting his weight against the bed. Erik hung his head, running a hand over his bare face and feeling with disgust the ridges and valleys of his deformity under his gloved palm. "A fool to let yourself even dare hope," he thought, dropping his hand to his side. "Two weeks of pitifully trying to drown your sorrow in liquor, waiting for someone to call. You knew no one would call." The Phantom slowly eased himself back on the bed, not even savoring the gentle caress of the fine coverlet he had bought for her. His head spun as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts and he closed his eyes, trying desperately to stop the ceiling from spinning above him. As always, in the darkness behind his closed eyes he found her face, her brown eyes lucid and deep as they gazed at him mournfully. With a roar, he opened his eyes and threw himself from the bed, almost falling as his feet hit the uneven stone floor. "Why, Christine? Why can't you just let me go?" he cried to no one, his words slurred and eyes vague with drink. "Where are you?" Gasping for air, he fell to his knees and tried to still his panicked heart. "Where are you?" he whispered, eyes filling with drunken tears.

He cried as he remembered his bitterness, his empty rage upon their last meeting, only two weeks ago. He had derided her like a criminal, ignoring his own misdemeanors as he cursed her. Erik ran his fingers over his lips, unable to forget how her mouth had felt on his despite the passage of two long years. She was as inescapable as his face. He could hide her, conceal her behind walls or distance, but he couldn't forget that she was there. She was always there. "Christine…" he whispered, tasting her in his mouth, the sweet flavor blending with the sour afterthoughts of hard liquor that coated his tongue.

She had felt like heaven under his fingers during those few moments in which they had touched. Her scent had filled his senses, enveloping him in heady night jasmine and rose. He winced as he remembered her willing touch on his cheek, a soft, exploring caress before she had foolishly taken the mask from his face and the illusion had shattered. Before she had seen the ravaged visage of her Angel for the first time and all hope had dissipated, like clever morning fog fleeing to reveal the harsh details of the land in glaring sunlight.

_Stranger than you dreamt it,_

_Can you even bear to look or dare to think of me?_

_This lonesome gargoyle who burns in hell_

_But secretly yearns for heaven, _

_Secretly, secretly, oh Christine_…

Tears ran down his pale face, unstoppable as the memories that poured into his mind and ran before his eyes. He hated to drink; it was a disgusting habit he had quickly dispensed in London, but found himself again returning to now that he was back in Paris. Anything to escape the painfully clear apparitions of her that spoke to him at every turn. The heavy silence of the cavernous room settled upon him, seeming to crush him to the floor with its lonely resonance. Suddenly, a more unexpected vision presented itself. Madame Giry, standing alone on the shore of his home as he turned his back on her and walked away.

_Fool, don't you know she loves you? That I love you?_

Erik had hated himself in that moment, standing shocked in the darkness as the woman who had helped him for as long as he could remember dissolved into tears behind him. He had hated himself even more as he began to walk, leaving her there to cry alone despite it all – despite her loyalty to him and love for him. Shame had flooded him, chased him from that room and into the dark night.

"Oh, Antoinette, I apologize, my friend," he whispered, rare and searing guilt flooding him. She hadn't come to see him in two weeks, not since she had taken care of him when he fainted. She hadn't set a foot in the Opera Populaire – he was sure of it. "Antoinette, what can I do?" he slurred, hands open and pleading. "Forgive me…"

His heart filling with new purpose, Erik unsteadily rose from his position on the floor and wrapped himself in a heavy cloak, preparing to walk out into the night. He fumbled with the buttons of his cravat, afraid of his own intentions. He had not left the Opera Populaire since returning two weeks ago, since seeing _her._ Erik stumbled gracelessly to his desk and downed a glass of whiskey, the hard taste biting his throat and fueling his zeal. "Antoinette, Christine, you must forgive me for this," he mumbled incoherently, downing another drought of liquor and throwing down the glass with a crash. He threw his dark cloak across his face and made his way out of the room, disappearing into ruinous shadow.

* * *

Madame Giry peered into the dark room, cracking the door only slightly so as not to allow the beam of intrusive light to fall upon her fitfully sleeping guest. She quietly closed the door, satisfied that Christine was only dreaming again, and walked down the hall to the kitchen where Meg sat at the table, sipping a cup of cocoa in her tattered robe.

"She is dreaming," Madame Giry whispered, taking the seat next to her daughter.

"Good. At least she's sleeping, then," Meg said quietly, setting down the cocoa and glancing down the dark hall. "She's barely slept this week or the last."

"I know. But she's barely left the bed, also. Poor girl," Antoinette replied softly, raising her daughter's cup of cocoa to her lips to blow on the steaming liquid. Suddenly, both women started as a loud crash resounded through the small household. They both went still, looking at each other with wide eyes before another crash rang through the house, this time the sound almost certainly coming from the front door. Madame Giry dropped the cup in her fright and the cheap porcelain shattered, the black cocoa quickly spreading across the table like blood. She grabbed her cane and, ignoring the mess, rose from her chair to slowly make her way towards the door. Another loud bang startled her and she hesitated, listening for any indication of the sound's origin. Her eyes flew wide and she hurried to the door, throwing it open without stopping to look outside.

A man stood in the entrance, a dark cloak thrown over his features and wrapped around his powerful frame. His stance was obviously unsteady as he struggled to maintain his balance under the alarmingly familiar black cloak. "Erik," she gasped, and he stumbled forward, catching himself against the doorframe.

"Antoinette," he slurred coarsely, falling from the door and landing heavily across the entrance, cloak falling from his ravaged face.


	8. Colère Aveugle

**Resonance by sheshakes**

**Chapter Eight: ****Colère Aveugle**

A loud crash shook the tiny room and Christine sat up in bed, eyes wide with terror. The hair raised on the back of her neck as she listened intently, instantaneously alert. The spring air was almost vibrating in the dark room and Christine's mind began to race. "It's him," her heart sang to her, but she killed the fantasy as soon as it was born. She tensed as another booming quake passed through the dark guest room, making the narrow bed tremble violently with its power. Christine threw the sheets and coverlet from her body and scrambled from the bed, still listening attentively as she made her way towards the bedroom door. She increased her pace as she heard a frantic voice in the hall, the tone low and distressed. "Madame Giry!" she gasped, terrified for the safety of her old friends. Bursting through the door into the dimly lit hall, Christine stopped dead, hand clasped across her gaping mouth in shock.

She saw the black-clothed form of a man crumble like dirt to dust, the body landing heavily on the floor of the entryway as Madame Giry looked on in abject horror. As the stranger fell through the dimly lit air between his body and the floor, the cloak that was wrapped around him fell away, exposing the beautifully pale face that had haunted her dreams and stared at her in the darkness - the face of her Angel. Madame Giry let loose a hoarse scream as Erik hit the hardwood floor and Meg appeared from the kitchen behind her to look on the ravaged face of the mysterious Phantom in disbelief, blue eyes wide with fear. Christine abandoned all doubts and pelted down the hall, dropping gracelessly to her knees beside the slumped body of her captor, her ghost, her dream.

Madame Giry rapidly shook herself from her state of stunned immobility and slammed the heavy front doors closed, shutting out the eyes of night. She turned back to her shocked daughter and whispered to her urgently, "Meg, I am going to need your help."

Christine ignored all that was going on around her, concentrating only on the Phantom's slack face as she struggled to comprehend what had happened. Madame Giry anxiously peered over Christine's shoulder at the pale man, trying to steady her voice so as not to alarm the girls. "Christine, will you help me move him?" she asked, laying a barely trembling but firm hand on the girl's arm. Christine jumped under Madame Giry's touch, her mind snapping from dazed shock back into solemn reality. She turned her startled gaze to her old mistress and nodded slowly, face drained of all blood and brown eyes frantic with anxiety. "I am going to put him in your room. You can sleep with Meg tonight," Madame Giry said assertively, trying to disguise the apprehension in her voice.

"Oui, Madame," Christine whispered, rising shakily on unsure legs and looking down at the motionless body of the Phantom, powerless.

* * *

They heaved him unsteadily into the twisted sheets of the bed, struggling under the weight of his powerful body, now limp with drink. Christine and Madame Giry straightened him in the narrow bed, both of them fumbling in their rush. They both stepped back to appraise their work and Christine found her eyes fixed on the Phantom's bare face, amazed to be seeing him at all, let alone in this vulnerable state. She caressed his startling countenance with her eyes, wincing slightly as she remembered the last time she had seen his face free of obstruction. Christine calmly scanned the distorted side of his face, her gaze warm with affection. Antoinette glanced slyly at the motionless girl from the corner of her vision, smiling slightly as she realized without surprise that the look in Christine's brown eyes was one that she was sure was often in her own when she had rarely looked upon Erik's bare face.

"Undress him," Madame Giry said quietly to Christine, gesturing to the bed while she turned to busy herself preparing a cooling compress. Christine stared helplessly at the Phantom's body before slowly moving to remove his wrinkled but familiarly elegant attire. Trying to be as delicate as possible, Christine slid the black leather gloves from his elegant hands, feeling her trembling fingertips gently brush his skin as she did. She gently pulled his black tailored overcoat from his arms and shoulders, awkwardly sliding it from beneath his limp body. As she gently undid the buttons of his silk cravat she could feel the ripple of his muscles beneath the fine cloth and she felt her heart jump. Scolding herself for her idiocy, Christine swallowed her haphazard emotions and began to tug the loose white muslin shirt from his waistband, trying to slow her breathing as she did. She almost shuddered with pleasure as she touched his smooth skin, sliding her shaking hands slowly under the shirt and over his muscular torso to remove it from his powerful form. Moving quickly to disguise her inappropriate thoughts, Christine successfully removed his muslin shirt and hurriedly pulled the sheet over his now half-bare body, turning to Madame Giry. The older woman smiled to herself when she saw the girl's blushing cheeks but said nothing, moving instead to dip a cloth in the basin of cool water Meg had placed by the bed. Christine felt the hot flush of blood in her face but tried to ignore it, anxious to help the Phantom in any way she could.

"Madame Giry, what is wrong with him?" she asked timidly, glancing at the disheveled older woman as Meg returned with a large pitcher of cool water.

"Erik is weak and has had too much to drink. He just needs rest and nutrition, I'd say," Madame Giry replied calmly, laying the cool cloth across Erik's pale forehead. "He will be fine," she stated clearly, hoping to soothe the shattered nerves of her overwhelmed houseguest. "I do not need you any more, Christine, Meg. I'd suggest you two try to get some sleep. Thank you, girls."

Throwing a worried glance at the Phantom, Christine unhappily conceded to her former ballet mistress's supremacy and followed Meg out of the room, barely pausing to look back as she closed the door behind her. Once in the dimly lit hall, Christine leaned against Meg in the candlelight, crying softly as her friend stroked her back consolingly.

"Maman says he'll be fine, Christine. Shh…" she said gently, feeling the dampness of her friend's sorrowful tears on her shoulder. Meg whispered, "Come with me," and pulled Christine into her bedroom, secretly knowing there would be no sleep for her dear friend on this night.

* * *

Christine lay in the narrow bed beside Meg, eyes wide as she stared at the flat white plane of the ceiling. Sleep would not come so she lay awake in the eerie moonlight, listening to the silence of the household in the early hours of the morning. "Why is he here?" she thought, perplexed (and admittedly, rather pleased despite herself) by his unexpected and disturbing appearance. She felt her cheeks grow hot with a flush of blood as she remembered the feeling of his smooth body under her hands as she tentatively removed his clothing. Christine felt her body respond to the memory and she closed her eyes, shutting herself in the darkness of her mind with the secret desires that permeated her conscious. Suddenly, a voice startled her from her thoughts. The sound was muffled by distance, but she was certain she knew exactly whom the deep voice producing them belonged to. Glancing at Meg and finding her still asleep, Christine stealthily rose from the small bed and tiptoed to the door, softly pressing it open and flinching as it creaked every so slightly in the stillness of the house. Meg did not wake, and Christine stepped into the dark hall, shutting the door quietly behind her. Again, a voice floated to her ears and Christine treaded quietly down the dark passage, stopping outside the door of the guest bedroom before timidly pressing it open to peer inside.

Dark silence greeted her and she leaned into the room, squinting ineffectively to try and make out the shape of her Angel in the tangled sheets. She shut the door behind her and walked hesitantly to the bedside, looking down on the Phantom as he tossed restlessly in his fitful sleep, mouthing silent words to the lonely night. "He is beautiful," she thought, gazing on him with sorrowful adoration. Her eyes caressed his ravaged visage and she found herself neither disgusted nor frightened by the haggard right side of his face. Rather, she found it as beautiful if not more so than the smooth left side of his countenance, startling as it was. "His deformity makes him more beautiful," she reflected fondly, impulsively reaching out to lightly caress the right side of his face with shaking fingers. He thrashed fitfully and the sheets fell away from his body, leaving his torso and chest conspicuously bare in the dim room. Never looking away from his face, Christine ran a trembling hand down his cheek to his throat and then further, to his muscular chest. She shivered as she felt his smooth skin naked under her questing hand and her eyes closed. In the dark she moved her caress back to his face, feeling the crevasses and raised scars of his deformity under her palm.

Suddenly, a strong hand grasped her wrist and her eyes flew open, ready to meet the cold blue eyes of her master. Instead, she found herself gazing into the contorted face of a sleeping man tormented by terrifying nightmares. The Phantom's blue eyes were screwed shut but tears ran down his cheeks as he cried out in desperation to the darkness.

"No, no. Where are you?" he pleaded incoherently, voice thick with apprehension. He released her wrist and turned his face into the pillow, clinging to the sheets twisted around him in agony. She sighed and slowly leaned forward, resting her cool palm on his hot cheek.

"I am here, Erik," she breathed softly, soothing him with her gentle touch. His tense face relaxed a bit and he clasped his smooth hand over hers, holding her palm to his burning cheek.

"Christine…" he sighed, eyes still closed tightly as he struggled in his sleep to find her. His grip was strong and she found herself pulled towards him until her body was pressed against his side in the small bed, only the thin cloth of her cotton nightgown separating their skin. Her heart was in her throat as she timidly pulled her legs onto the bed and lay beside him, hand still held tightly to his face as he pressed her to him. She clung to him in the twisted bed sheets, holding her body to his bare skin as well as she could in the cramped space. Erik turned in his sleep to urgently take her in his strong arms and possessively hold her face to his bare chest. A ragged gasp rose in her throat as they lay in the tiny guest room, bodies sinfully closer than they'd ever been in waking life.

"Where are you?" Erik asked quietly, incoherent as he inhabited the dream world, unaware of their physical proximity in the waking world. Christine caressed his ravaged cheek silently and placed a glancing kiss on his elegant hand, feeling more secure in his powerful embrace than she'd ever felt before, even in the arms of her steady husband. She pulled back to look at his startlingly beautiful face in the dim moonlight and sighed, leaning forward to take advantage of the stolen moment and place a soft kiss on his cheek. As her lips touched his face, she felt her body flood with warmth and she tasted his skin, the flavor as intoxicating now as it had been over two years ago, when they had found themselves passionately locked together standing in the cold water at the doorstep of his cavernous underworld. The warm flavor was as perfect now as it had been then, and yet on that night she had left him alone in the dark as she unforgivably fled with Raoul, a man she knew then she could never love as much as the aching Angel of the night.

Trying desperately to force all painful memories from her mind, Christine breathed in Erik's familiar scent, like foreign spices and lands she'd never seen and felt her body succumb to blissful sleep in the arms of the man she had once so foolishly denied, despite the cries of her own heart.

The sun was rising when Christine opened her eyes and found herself still clinging to the half-bare body of the Phantom, his eyes still shut but breathing now steady and slow. She could hear his steady heart beat through his chest as she pressed her cheek to his body, relishing the stolen contact.

"What am I doing?" she thought, now slightly horrified by her inappropriate behavior in the soft light of dawn. "A married woman, clinging to the bare body of another man as he sleeps off a drunken stupor." Frowning slightly at this sad reflection on her current position, Christine pulled away from Erik's embrace enough to look him in the face as he peacefully slept. His beautifully exposed countenance showed none of the horror she had seen on it during the night and she smiled slightly, thinking that he looked rarely serene. Sighing softly, Christine painstakingly extracted herself from his firm hold and rose cautiously from the tousled bed, blushing as she looked back to see the powerful body of the man she had spent the night with, unbeknown to him. Shivering in the cold air of the room, Christine carefully pulled the sheets over the sleeping Angel and wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders, face still flushed as she paused over his sleeping countenance and again placed a chaste kiss on his right cheek. She left the room quietly, closing the door softly and sneaking back into Meg's bedroom to happily find her friend still asleep and her rash misbehavior undiscovered by Madame Giry, who would almost certainly strongly disapprove.

* * *

Erik struggled to lift his drooping eyelids, feeling the persistent warmth of sunlight on his bare face. He started in alarm as his vision focused and he found himself in an unfamiliar bedroom, half clothed in a tangle of sheets that were certainly not his own. Suddenly, his head exploded in blinding pain and he closed his eyes, desperate to ward off the garish light of day. "Hung over," he thought disgustedly, thoroughly displeased with the current situation of his head. His senses swam as he lay back in the tousled sheets, relishing the feel of the smooth sheets on his bare back. "Where am I?" he said to himself hopefully, trying to even vaguely recollect the events of the previous night. He remembered liquor, a vast amount of liquor, and all reflection ended there.

The door of the bedroom creaked open and Erik opened his eyes quickly, clapping his hand over his monstrous face in preparation for whatever person he might find before him when his vision stopped swimming. The room finally sharpened and he found himself staring into the familiarly stern face of Madame Giry.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," she said tersely, approaching the bed with deep relief barely apparent on her aging countenance. Erik groaned beneath his hand, memories of the previous night's exploits slowly dawning in his mind now that he had seen her face. He had been drunk. He had foolishly left the Opera Populaire… and come here.

"Madame Giry, forgive me for my rudeness. I shall leave immediately," he said brusquely, sitting up in bed only to find the world once again spinning as a jolt of pain rushed across his forehead, effectively halting his progress. He fell heavily back into the sheets, growling with frustration as Madame Giry forcefully handed him a brimming glass of water.

"Don't be a fool," Antoinette spat scornfully, fixing him with a reprimanding gray stare. "Although, I daresay you've been acting like one as of late," she added sharply, gesturing for him to drink the water. He groaned, gulping down the water as she glared at him with cold gray eyes.

"You aren't going anywhere until you get your strength back," Madame Giry stated conclusively, taking the empty glass from him and refilling it with the pitcher of water on the bedside table. Erik opened his mouth to argue, but she silenced him with a sharp shake of her head and a stern look. "When did you last eat something?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him as he took the glass of water from her. He frowned with displeasure, thoroughly loathing the position he had so regrettably put himself in. Erik was not one to be fussed over – he despised condescension, especially when it was delivered in the form of Madame Giry's patronizing tone. "Well?"

"It's been a few days," he lied resentfully, voice thick with petulance. In fact, it had been a week if not more since he had last been able to bring himself to eat; he had found his appetite dulled if not extinct since his unhappy return to Paris. Madame Giry huffed, scolding him with her gray eyes as he sipped at the water with a pained expression painted across his half-concealed visage.

"No wonder you've been fainting, imbécile," she chided in exasperation. "You can stay here until you're stronger," she added, her rigid voice so full of unflinching authority that he immediately knew any resistance to her rigid command was, as usual, futile. Firmly setting the half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, Erik threw Antoinette a searing look of extreme irritation that she expertly ignored. She took the glass of water from the nightstand and again compellingly handed it to him, expression uncompromising as she said, "You just settle in. It's indispensable that you rest, Erik." He drank the rest of the water in gulps, handing her the empty glass with a small, mocking grin on his face.

She frowned seriously, taking the glass and saying spitefully, "You scared us, Erik. Don't do that again." The solemnity of her tone wiped the derision from Erik's blue eyes and he blanched slightly, immediately ashamed of his lack of graciousness.

"I am sorry, Antoinette," he said softly, voice sincere and eyes full of silent apology. "I just came to apologize, I think." She looked surprised at this unexpected admission and paused to stare at him with a calculating expression on her face. It was decidedly not like Erik to be compromising, and even less like him to be apologetic.

"To apologize, Monsieur? Why?" she asked seriously.

"For never telling you… well…" he trailed off, immediately embarrassed by his intention, but still resolved. "Thank you, Antoinette," he said quietly, blue eyes searching her face as she stared at him, stunned by this uncharacteristic action of her old friend. Madame Giry felt pressure behind her eyes, the threat of unwanted tears. She was shocked by the depth of sincerity she found in Erik's ashamed voice, by the gratitude that flashed through his usually cold eyes. He leaned to take one of her hands with his free grasp and repeated it to her, voice heavy with years of regret. "Merci." Erik laid a soft kiss on the back of her hand, glancing up to see a single tear run down Madame Giry's stern countenance. She quickly pulled away, brusquely wiping the telling tear from her skin with the hand he had kissed and staring at him in something like disbelief.

"Erik, I-," she began, stuttering as her voice cracked with unbridled emotion. He shook his head at her, instantly silencing her with the sadness in his aching blue eyes as he looked at her.

"You are the only person I've ever had a true reason to thank," he whispered softly, hand still held to his face, obstructing her view of his startling visage. She had thought many times over the years that the only reason his deformity was as striking as it was is that the other side of his face was so devastatingly beautiful. Madame Giry often found herself wondering if perhaps it was the juxtaposition of his extremes on one surface that made him so beautiful; his hurt had been forged into him at birth, branded into the delicate skin of his gorgeous face. Another tear fell down her cheek but Antoinette did not move to brush it away; she let it streak her skin like a scar, it's path almost burning as the pain poured from her heart onto her face. Tear shining on her solemn face, Antoinette stepped forward to place her hand over Erik's, pulling the living mask from his face with gentle force as he stared at her in excruciating terror. He hesitantly let her remove his hand and tried his hardest not to flinch under her gaze – he let her look, let her touch his face with her cold gray eyes.

She smiled at him sadly, hand still entwined with his where it had fallen from his face. Antoinette leaned forward slowly, placing the softest of kisses on his ravaged skin before he could twist away in fear. Pulling back quickly, she looked into his horrified countenance and again smiled reassuringly, whispering gently, "It is nothing, old friend," as the tears began to fall from his blue eyes.

Madame Giry stood straight and looked down on her old friend, lying twisted among the sheets of the bed with tears staining his proud face and said softly, "Anything for you." Sadness infused her smile as she turned from him and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her and leaning against it, desperately wiping the bitter tears from her aging face.

* * *

Erik stared at the closed door in stunned silence, unable to stop the insistent tears falling from his eyes to indelibly mark his face with their salty sadness, their regret. His head ached, the ghosting pain of bitter alcohol, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in the core of his bare chest. He violently erased the tears from his horrifying visage with a shaking hand, stopping to stare at his wet palm as he finished. Rising from the jungle of sheets, Erik fumbled to put on his white muslin shirt, which he found lying neatly on the bedside chair with his other articles of clothing. He glanced curiously around the room, unhappily noticing the highly worn quality of every material aspect of his surroundings. Erik was meticulously straightening his cravat and pulling on his black leather gloves when he heard the bedroom door open behind him and clasped a hand to his face, afraid of frightening Little Meg with the monstrosity her mother had so recently blessed with her blind kiss.

"Monsieur, I've brought breakfast." He spun around, all renewed strength within him draining from him as the familiarity of the soft voice rung in his ears. At the door, holding a brimming tray of food, was Christine, clothed in a plain work dress and stained apron with her curly hair messily pulled back in a bun at the nape of her graceful neck. She was deathly pale and her wide brown eyes were full of hesitation as she shakily moved forward to place the breakfast tray on the small bedside table, deftly avoiding his stunned stare.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he breathed, all air torn from his lungs by her mere presence in this place. She glanced up at the hoarse sound of his voice and accidentally met eyes with him, visibly flinching as his piercing blue eyes fixed on her, stripping her of any bravery she may have had upon her entrance. Christine froze under his eyes, their cold blue depths drowning her in an ocean of frigid water and ripping all words from her tongue. She gasped for air, trying desperately to escape the trappings of his gaze and speak.

"Living," she gasped, the sound of her voice betraying the plunging depth of her trepidation. He paused at this inexplicably curt answer, breaking his gaze with her to glance doubtfully around the small bedroom.

"Here?" Erik asked incredulously as he turned to bitterly watch her force a frightened nod, obviously petrified by her uncomfortable proximity to his monstrous form.

"Oui," Christine coughed hoarsely, looking away in embarrassment. She nervously buried her hands in her apron, feeling a familiar form in the pocket and turned back to look at him, eyes wide with apprehension. "Here," she said quickly, drawing the Phantom's mask from her apron pocket and holding it out to him in a shaking palm. Erik hissed with disbelief, compulsively snatching it from her trembling grip with his free hand and staring at it in astonishment.

"Where did you get this?" he whispered, stroking the smooth white leather with his thumb as the hollow eye of his mask gazed back at him.

"A gift from a friend," she volunteered tentatively, glancing at him hopefully as he looked fixedly at his mask in shock. At this he snorted derisively, his cold eyes full of skepticism as he glanced up at her. Christine silently wished for warmth to infuse his gaze, for some familiarity to creep into his hard voice. Shaking his head slightly, Erik turned from Christine and gently smoothed the white mask across his ravaged face, sighing softly in relief as the smooth leather molded to its hideous shape, perfectly concealing it from the cruel world. Erik turned back to her and her mouth gaped open as she saw him, the exact Angel of Music that had been an apparition in her life only two years ago. The sight of the Phantom in his mask shocked her; it was as if the past was the present and all the time that had passed was erased in a moment, erased by one look at his familiarly haunting face, half concealed by the sinister white façade she had come to know so well.

"Thank you, Vicomtess de Chagny," Erik said coldly, "for my mask." His voice was chilling; it was as if the mask infused his body with the terrifying intensity that had begun to fade into a dull ache in the past two years. The mask filled him with powerful emotions and dangerous memories, fusing his past to his present as he molded it to his features. She flinched at the sharpness of his voice, the frigidity of its deep sound on her skin. Christine felt angry as the metallic quality of his voice killed all hope in her heart, tearing from her the dreams she had clung to the last two weeks. The sinister mask stared at her heartlessly, its presence filling the room with the crushing reality of the past and present: of her betrayal, her marriage, his violence, and his rage. Ghosts of painful moments she wished to forget weighed down upon her and her heart closed itself, desperately trying to escape the excruciating torture of reliving the agony of their past.

Erik stared at her from behind the mask, watching mournfully as his cold tone passed through her like a wave. "Forgive me, Christine," he thought silently, grieving as her beautiful face went hard before his eyes.

"It is nothing, Erik," she spat bitterly. The Phantom winced as she said his name for the first time, her sweet voice full of cutting pain that violently ripped through him like cannonball shrapnel. He looked at her in shock and saw that her beautiful eyes were blurring with tears. In that instant, he would have killed himself just to rid the world of anyone that could cause his angel such agony. Her tearing brown eyes were dark and swimming with displeasure as they met with his stare and he lamented his foolishness. Erik found that he wanted nothing more than to crush her to him, forcing the pain from her eyes with the ferocity of a desperate kiss. He longed to feel her soft lips on his undeserving mouth, to taste the haunting flavor of her body on his cruel tongue. Instead he stood powerlessly in an intrusively bright, sadly worn bedroom that was not his own as the only woman he'd ever allowed himself to love began to bitterly cry in the wake of his arrogance, his cruelty.

Christine tore her eyes from his as the burning tears began to streak her pale cheeks. She turned away from the past and walked stiffly from the room, slamming the door behind her and falling to her knees in the hallway as she dissolved into silent sobs.

He watched as she twisted from him and almost ran to the door of the bedroom, tearing it open so that she could escape his twisted malice and hideous presence. A knot rose in his throat, choking him as the door slammed shut behind her, leaving the air ringing with unspoken words.

"Christine," Erik whispered, immobilized in anger by his own searing shame and imprisoned in sorrow by his inescapable regret.

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now._

_ It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…_


	9. Pride and Cruelty

**Resonance by sheshakes**

**Chapter Nine: Pride and Cruelty**

Erik sat heavily on the narrow bed, staring at the closed door as his mind raced with unspoken words. He could smell her scent clinging to the air in the sunlit room, the inescapable aroma of a rose. Erik tried to slow his breathing but found it beyond his control and he closed his eyes, succumbing to the waking fantasies inspired by her lingering scent. Heart pounding, he could swear he felt the caress of her lips on his, could taste the haunting flavor of her body on his tongue. In his mind Christine filled his arms, gently warming his body with hers as their lips passionately met and their limbs entwined. As he sat alone in the room he could feel the weight of her flawless body against his and he sighed, both desperate to escape the fantasy and frantic to lose himself within it.

Suddenly, his blue eyes flew open. A gasping sob interrupted the torturous visions fantasies that filled him and he rose from the bed, blanching with alarm. "Who?" he thought, immediately answering his own question. His blue eyes narrowed with doubt and he treaded softly to the closed door to cautiously press his ear to the cold surface. Wincing at the private agony he could hear through the door, Erik silently cursed himself for creating this pain, for giving birth to his Angel's frightened sobs. As usual, he had obviously managed to become the very demon he had so often been accused of being by weakly succumbing to his own ravenous thirst for vengeance. He could feel the reverberations of her sobs through the hard wood of the door and hear the light gasps of her ragged breathing. "What have I done?" the Phantom asked himself in silent scorn, familiar self-loathing poisoning his heart. Every nerve in his body urged him to throw open the door and to take her in his arms, to try vainly to alleviate her pain with his repentant embrace. Instead, he pulled his bare cheek from the door and stiffly stood, desperate to avoid the searing agony of self-wrought shame.

As he resumed his seat on the narrow bed, Erik tried desperately to still the frantic workings of his mind. His baffled conscious was raging with questions, his heavy heart buoying on fragile hope. "Why does she cry?" he asked himself silently, afraid to let himself answer the dangerous question. "Imbècile. No, she does not love you. She cries for Raoul, for fear. She cries for disgust at having seen you, fearsome specter." Face twisting under the white façade with fierce hatred, Erik stared coldly at his bare hands in embittered repugnance.

* * *

Madame Giry paused as she heard Christine walk down the dark hall to disappear into Meg's bedroom, the girl's breathing still haggard with tears. "The beast," she spat angrily, fiercely scrubbing the worn pan in her grasp. Antoinette's hands burned painfully as she continued to vigorously clean the dirty pan, her skin raw from friction and searing dish soap. A bang on the front door interrupted Madame Giry's scorching internal monologue and she dropped the obstinate pan into the sink with a splash, running her burning palms over her apron in a vague attempt to dry them. She walked to the door and slowly opened it to the brightly sunlit Parisian street.

"Vicomte!" she gasped in surprise, quickly throwing the door wide and ushering him in with an awkward curtsy. The Vicomte's handsome face was ghostly pale in the garish light and his kind blue eyes faded to weak gray with exhaustion. "He has aged a year in two weeks," she thought solemnly as he made his way into the modest Mason de Giry.

"I have come to see the Vicomtess." The nobleman's usually melodious voice betrayed his bitter fatigue and he paused, taking a raspy breath before continuing. "I understand she is here." Raoul glanced around the plain entryway, tired eyes lighting over the faded wallpaper and worn furniture. Madame Giry tried to ignore the skepticism evident in his melancholy face and nodded curtly, wiping her smarting hands nervously on her stained kitchen apron.

"Oui, Vicomte. I shall get her right away," she said hurriedly, gesturing for him to wait in the less than grand hall as she walked briskly to Meg's bedroom. She knocked lightly before opening the door a crack to peer in. Christine sat stiffly on the narrow bed with her back to the entrance while Meg sat awkwardly on the chair, attempting to patch the torn hem of an old dress while nervously eyeing her friend. "Vicomtess, your husband is here," Madame Giry whispered urgently, cursing the unintended inconvenience of the man's unfortunate timing. Christine turned quickly, staring at Madame Giry in disbelief. Antoinette nodded and added quietly, "He's in the hall." Christine blanched under her already sickly complexion and fiercely wiped her raw eyes with her shaking hands, desperate to appear at least somewhat content in her new life. She stood rapidly and anxiously smoothed her disheveled work dress, pausing as she tried to slow her breathing.

Christine flinched as she made her way up the hall behind Madame Giry and saw Raoul, heart pounding as she noted the damage of two weeks separation etched into his familiar face and clouding his bland gaze.

"Raoul," she breathed hoarsely, stopping before him to look timidly into his pale face. He smiled weakly, his forced expression more one of intense pain than of happiness. Christine opened her mouth to speak but found that she did not have words to adequately voice what she was feeling. Pity, guilt, and bitter sadness flooded her senses and she found herself shocked into grating silence. Raoul eyed her quietly before interrupting the resonant silence with his tired voice.

"I have brought some of your things," he said softly, gesturing limply to the impressive trunk sitting behind him on the outside stoop. She turned her baffled stare to the oversized luggage and impetuously bit her lip, wooden tongue still useless without the words to utilize it. "I thought you'd need them," he added, voice low and hollow with misery as he glanced at her helplessly, blue eyes clouded with fatigue. The melancholy sound of his voice finally snapped Christine from her stunned daze and she laid a shaking hand on Raoul's arm, looking at him with reddened eyes as he avoided her gaze.

"Merci, Raoul," she whispered, feeling him flinch slightly under her hesitant touch.

"It's nothing." He indiscreetly glanced to the street as if to check on his carriage. "Well, I should go," he said quickly, stepping back from Christine without looking her in the face. Raoul turned to leave but found Christine's hand clasped firmly on his shoulder.

"Raoul," she pleaded, wrenching him around and enveloping him in an embrace. He returned the gesture, pulling her to his chest with more than a little desperation. He ran his trembling hands down her back, entangling his fingers in the dark curls of her hair.

"I miss you, Little Lotte," Raoul whispered, voice shaking slightly as he held her to him. Christine pulled back to look into his sad eyes and nodded, running her hand over the familiar landscape of his handsome face. Raoul slowly released her from his tight embrace and she stepped back, arms wrapped around herself as he smiled sadly at her, eyes speaking to her of a thousand things she already knew. Suddenly, his eyes shifted and his face instantly turned to stone, jaw going rigid. Christine turned to follow his frigid gaze and gasped, seeing the dark shape of the Phantom standing in the dim hallway by the guest room door. Panicked, she laid her hand on Raoul's tensed shoulder and forcibly pushed him from the house, dark eyes full of desperate apology. He glanced at her solemnly, some bitterness infusing his gaze before he turned on his heel and rushed to his carriage, pointedly not looking at her as he rode away.

* * *

Erik angrily slammed the door behind him as he stormed into the guest bedroom, familiar jealousy rushing through his body like poison. "Fool," he hissed venomously, repulsed by his own vulnerability. "How dare you let yourself even hope?" He clenched his fists at his sides as he paced, an enraged wolf in a tiny cage. In his mind he could see them embrace in the hall, the way the Vicomte's hands caressed Christine's luxurious hair as she held him. The image blurred and distorted, and Erik winced as he vividly relived that night on the roof of the Opera Populaire.

Snow began to fall lightly as he crouched in the shadows behind a stone gargoyle, predatory and alert. His beloved Christine Daaé and the repugnantly handsome Vicomte de Chagny circled on another in the snow before him, happily oblivious to his hideous presence. The Phantom winced as, under his intense gaze, they sweetly sang to one another, innocently promising the constancy of their saccharine adoration. He could feel his heartbeat raging as he watched his Angel willingly give herself to that bland noble, that _boy. _When he saw their lips meet, a blinding pain exploded in his chest and he almost cried out in agony, barely stopping the sound by fiercely biting his tongue. Metallic blood filled his mouth as helpless tears began to fill his eyes, distorting the picturesque view of the young couple embracing each other amidst the heavenly lights of Paris.

_I gave you my music,_

_Made your song take wing._

_And now, how you've repaid me-_

_Denied me and betrayed me…_

_He was bound to love you_

_When he heard you sing._

_Christine…_

The sound of falling footsteps in the hall snapped Erik back into the present, jerking him from the painfully livid abyss of his inexorable memories. The door of the bedroom opened and Erik's hand flew to his face only to find it obscured by his white mask. Madame Giry burst into the room and slammed the door behind her, fixing Erik with a stern stare.

"Monsieur, must you torture the poor girl?" she asked scornfully, cold gray eyes narrowed in disapproval as she stared at the startled Phantom.

"Torture _her?_"

"Oui, Monsieur. Must you be a monster?" Madame Giry grimaced furiously as she said the words, firmly standing her ground even as Erik angrily approached her, hands white-knuckled at his sides.

"I cannot help what I am," he roared, disregarding all proper sense of discretion in the face of accusation. Madame Giry snorted derisively at this outburst, lips pulled back in a bitter sneer.

"So frightened! Hiding behind your face like a coward." Erik stopped dead, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing from the mouth of an old friend.

"Hiding? _Hiding_, Madame Giry? How dare you?" he yelled hoarsely, face blanched and blue eyes wild with fury.

"She just wants to love you," Madame Giry yelled back, frigid eyes livid with equally intense rage. She impulsively advanced on the Phantom and found herself pursuing him as he unexpectedly retreated, raising his hand to his face in a pathetically defensive gesture. Antoinette stopped abruptly and stared at him, trying to control her anger as she repeated herself, tensely whispering, "She just wants to love you." Pausing only for a fraction of a second to stare at her in all-consuming agony, Erik frantically collected his façade and began to laugh bitterly, the sound forced and his face contorted with subdued anguish.

"To love me? But, Madame, who could love me, the monster?" His voice was dangerously low and she flinched at the cruelty saturating his tone. Antoinette paused then to stare dubiously at the spiteful man before her, a man who she had known to be a sadly misunderstood genius and had missed bitterly in the two long years of his absence. Now, looking in the stricken face of the callous Phantom, she felt her suffering heart pause in its rhythm and dreams falter. This cold monster before her was not that man.

"Who are you?" Madame Giry asked sadly, staring into the livid eyes of her old friend in disbelief. The terrifying desperation coloring Erik's countenance frightened her to her core; the despair in his cold eyes sapped her of any anger she had raging within her and left only aching sorrow. "The man I once knew was passionate, so beautiful. He was no beast. I do not know you, Monsieur; I fear I was wrong to think I had finally found my dear friend, after two long years." Madame Giry watched silently as her biting words struck Erik, instantly draining the blood from his taught face and cutting off the wild anger that had poisoned his stinging gaze. He was struck dead and for a moment Antoinette thought he had stopped breathing as well. The cutting words hung in the quiet room for a moment as the two stared at one another, both shocked by the pitiless words Madame Giry had loosed upon the air. Finally abandoning her pride, she quietly ushered Erik towards the bed, fearful that in his weakened state he would simply fall into unconsciousness before her eyes.

He flinched from her reach but stumbled to the narrow bed, almost collapsing onto it. Her malicious words had stripped him of all regained strength and now he faltered, too physically and emotionally exhausted to fight any longer.

"Antoinette," he whispered hoarsely, "why is she here?" Madame Giry smiled sadly, turning away from Erik to look out the sunlit window. She paused in silence and he was suddenly struck by her fading beauty; in the bright sunlight she could almost be the naïve chorus girl that had once blindly rescued him from an agonizing hell.

"For you, Erik," she said quietly. "For you." Erik closed his eyes and ears on the modest bedroom, attempting to shut out the blinding light of day and the sorrowful voice of his old friend as he wished for forgiving night to descend.

* * *

Fidgeting restlessly in the cramped twin bed, Christine sighed in discontentment. Again, sleep skillfully evaded her as she lay in the dark room trying not to wake Meg, who slept peacefully beside her. Surrendering to her mind's willful alertness, Christine carefully extracted herself from the suffocating sheets without waking her friend and tiptoed to the door, pressing it open a crack to peer down the dark hall. She crept into the dimly candlelit passage way and closed the door behind her, easing the rusting handle into place so as not to shatter the tense silence of the sleeping household. She glanced around her shadowy surroundings, pausing as she noted that a faint glow was emanating from the kitchen at the other side of the hall – a beacon of warmth in a gloomy night. Christine sighed thankfully, assuming Madame Giry was still awake and pleased to have some company in these lonely twilight hours. Christine treaded softly down the hall, undeniably drawn to the glowing kitchen as a dusty moth is to the lone lamplight. She vaguely tried to make herself presentable before striding unexpectedly into the kitchen, but found that she was clothed only in a light nightgown and tattered robe. Shaking her head and secretly wondering what Raoul would say if he saw her unkempt appearance, she walked through the doorway into the kitchen.

Erik froze as Christine appeared in the entranceway to the kitchen, anxiously caught between the intense desire to flee into shadow and the wish to instantaneously vanish into nothing. She immediately halted upon seeing him and her hand flew to her mouth in what he bitterly assumed to be horror. Despite his misgivings he let his gaze travel over her, eyes drinking in her disheveled beauty and subtly clinging clothing. Unable to look away, he let his stare linger on her petite form, scarcely able to control his breathing as it threatened to follow his heart's raucous example.

Christine intently watched Erik as his piercing eyes flew over her, heart pounding violently in her chest as scenarios, each more improbable than the next, raced through her mind. Quickly discarding these foolish fantasies as rubbish, Christine balked under his invasive and scrutinizing look. She felt a warm blush rise in her pale cheeks and tried desperately to subdue it, painfully ashamed of her inappropriate attire and tousled appearance. Erik let out a slow, ragged breath, and forced his gaze to her brown eyes, guardedly trying to infuse his stare with coldness.

"Vicomtess…?" he asked, deep voice full of false scorn as he frantically tried to control the intense lust that threatened to leak into his tone. She fidgeted nervously with the ties to her ragged robe and he found himself shaking with the desire to rise and pull her to him, ripping the laces of her worn lingerie and pressing her bare skin to his.

Christine's heart fell at the vast distance in his deep voice but tried not to let it affect her. Besides, she was unavoidably distracted. Erik sat before her in the glowing candlelight, clothed only in a loose muslin shirt and black pants. His shirt gaped at the neck and the light shone through the cloth, making the strong silhouette of his powerful chest unavoidably obvious. Suddenly aware that she was staring, Christine glanced away and stuttered, trying to find what to say in the overwhelming presence of the beautiful man before her.

"I heard noises," she stammered, instantly loathing herself for her inarticulacy. He grinned slightly at this, cold blue eyes mocking her as she blushed beneath his intense gaze. "You silly girl," she thought bitterly, trying frantically to crush the fantasies of her naïve heart. "He does not love you, and who could blame him? You who betrayed him, broke him before the world. Who can love a viper?" Her face fell as she thought this and Christine felt her knees weaken ominously beneath her. Stumbling slightly, she caught herself on the edge of the kitchen table and dropped gracelessly into a chair.

Erik was overcome with the urge to catch Christine in his arms as she lurched unsteadily into a chair. Her beautiful face was pale as she weakly braced herself against the table and his heart wept for her. It was all he could do to keep from crushing her to him and catching her trembling lips in his own, roughly banishing the terrifying specters of the dark past. Erik violently shuddered at the thought, lust flaming through him as he struggled to control himself, to slow his ragged breathing and calm his shaking hands. "You do not love her," he told himself fiercely, glancing at Christine as she stared silently at the table, face white and clouded with fatigue. Even as the thought crossed his mind Erik knew it was a lie, but he clung to the statement like a buoy; he wanted desperately not to drown in adoration for her, in a beauty he knew he could never have.

Christine sat uncomfortably in the awkward silence that weighed down on the room, trying to regain her strength as she stared blankly at the table, unsure of what to say. When she finally looked up her gaze met with a pair of intensely blue eyes, staring back at her.

Erik flinched as she looked him in the face, eyes flying over the cold features of the white mask and clinging to his gaze. He was most startled by the look on her face; Christine's dark eyes pleaded with him, silently begging him for something he found he could not name. He quickly broke their searing eye contact, hatefully cursing for allowing himself to cling to useless hope. "I do not love her. And she does not love you," he told himself desperately.

"Erik…" she said softly, and he prickled as her lips delicately caressed his cursed name. "Must we be like this?" He grinned almost maliciously under his mask, but she pressed on, aching for some ultimatum, some escape from this deadly standstill between them. "I want to be your friend," she whispered, staring at the table in shame as she prepared herself for his fury, his violent rage.

The room was painfully silent as they sat there, the words ringing in the air around them. Erik's mouth gaped slightly, all scorn wiped clean from his face by the vast depth of pleading in her beautiful voice. His mind screamed at him not to listen to her – not to let her win and imprison him in his adoration for her. Simultaneously his foolish heart begged him to acquiesce, to finally destroy the bitter wall between them. "My friend?" he thought skeptically, astounded by this unexpected plea. The turmoil within him raged as the room stood still, imprisoning them both in the surreal silence of the sleeping household. His eyes clung to her as she stared hopelessly at the table, immobilized by her apprehension. "I am not strong enough to be her friend," Erik told himself bitterly, crushing all the desperate pleadings on his foolish core.

"Who can be friends with a monster?" he hissed venomously, lips contorting into a scalding sneer as her face fell, brown eyes clouding with mournful disillusionment.

"I am not a puppy, some small pet you can tame." His hoarse voice was shaking now and his face visibly blanching even beneath his pale complexion. She looked up in anguish and the Phantom met her eyes with a malicious blue stare, spitting, "I am the Phantom, remember? The angel of death? Or have you forgotten, _Victomess?_" Christine's bottom lip began to quiver as he raged on, noxious self-loathing saturating his tone as dark blood does a lethal wound. She felt her heart beat furiously with unexpected rage, incredible fury at this man's bitter anger, his petulance.

"That is true, you are not my pet. But I must argue, Monsieur, that you are something more than a specter. Whether or not you wish to be. Unfortunately, I suppose we cannot be friends. It was foolish to think a man as heartless as you appear to be could befriend a girl so foolish as I." Christine stopped then, pausing to peer into the Phantom's stunned eyes with a look of fierce scorn. "Adieu, Monsieur," she spat bitterly, breaking eye contact and rising from her seat to rigidly make her way out of the kitchen and into the dim shadow of the hall to her bedroom.

Erik sat stiff in his chair at the kitchen table, staring out the kitchen door in complete disbelief with blue eyes wide and proud mouth gaping. Then, in one swift movement he leapt from his seat and tore down the dark hallway after her.


	10. Artiste de L'évasion

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Ten: ****Artiste de L'évasion**

Unwanted tears began to wet her cheeks as Christine walked down the dimly candlelit hall, her narrow shoulders tense and head held high despite the devastation she felt within. "What gives him the right?" she thought angrily, clinging to her bitter fury in a vain attempt to delay her inevitable descent into aching sorrow. Suddenly, heavy footsteps pounded in the dark hall behind her, shattering the tangible silence of the household.

Christine's heart leapt in her chest, both in fierce hope and intense terror. The latter of the two reactions taking precedent, she blindly raced from the approaching footfalls and violently threw herself through Meg's bedroom door, desperate for sanctuary from the presumably enraged Phantom who pursued her. Abandoning discretion in her hysterical fear, Christine forcefully slammed the door shut behind her and fumbled at the lock, feebly attempting to defend herself and Meg from what she imagined to be cruel wrath.

Erik was only feet behind her when the bedroom door slammed shut with a force that made the entire household shake. He stopped dead, statue-still and alone in the dim hallway while the beautiful dream he had shadowed barricaded herself behind a flimsy bedroom door and an ancient lock.

"What did you intend to do?" he whispered scornfully, finding that he himself had no real recollection of what his intentions had been should he have caught the girl in her panicked flight. Wincing slightly as he heard Christine still scrabbling desperately to secure the lock on the inside of the bedroom door, the Phantom searched his mind for answers. He shut himself within his dark bedroom and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself into a near state of clarity. Succumbing to the ventures of his mind, Erik found himself running through the candlelit hall, following close behind Christine as she ran in blind terror with her white nightgown floating in the dim light behind her, a wedding train. He caught her in his powerful arms, desperately wrenching her around in the heavy darkness of the hallway to fiercely assault her warm lips with his own. Even in the fantasy he felt her impulsively stiffen under his forceful touch, only to soften after few tense moments and return the passionate kiss. Erik could taste her intoxicating flavor on his tongue as he lay alone on the cold floor of the guest room, eyes closed as feverish dreams overwhelmed his sense of somber reality. Christine moaned into his mouth as they unsteadily fell back against his bedroom door, arms tangled around one another in a longing embrace. The door swung open and they tumbled through the entrance to the cold bedroom floor, still deliciously entwined with one another while their lips locked in a rough kiss. Erik reeled deliriously, utterly besieged by the intense pleasure his body roared with as he felt Christine's soft curves under him, her smooth legs wrapped around his in a pleading embrace.

Erik sat up with a jolt, cold sweat coating his face as he frantically shook himself from torturous fantasy into bleak reality. His thin muslin shirt was soaked through with perspiration and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. He tried in vain to slow his breathing, to bring under control the flaming lust that burned within his body. Sapped of all energy, Erik dragged himself across the cold hardwood floor to his narrow bed and pulled himself into the tangle of sheets, eager to escape hopeless veracity and hide in thoughtless sleep.

* * *

Madame Giry paused momentarily as the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall reached her ears. She returned to her cooking, carefully lifting the crisp edges of the delicate crepe to peer underneath.

"Lunch?" she asked, flipping the perfectly browned crepe onto a rather worn plate and turning to present it to her silent guest. Antoinette sighed in exasperation as she was met with a fierce, blue-eyed stare. "Not hungry?" she asked wryly, meeting his look with an equally stern one. She paused suddenly, startled by his appearance; Erik was meticulously dressed in his finest attire. The black gloves, silk cravat, and elegant overcoat were all in place, although the elegant clothes and sinister mask did not cloak the residual weakness detectable in his pale countenance.

"Where is the Vicomtess?" Erik asked coldly, ignoring the woman's sharply calculating gaze. Madame Giry brusquely set the plate of crepes on the table and brushed flour from her stained apron, still regarding Erik with her cold gray eyes.

"He looks terrible," she thought to herself, taking in the yellow pallor of his complexion and the dark shadows below his intensely blue eyes.

"The Vicomtess left early this morning. She had some business to attend to." Madame Giry watched knowingly as the blood quickly drained from Erik's already ghostly visage and a look of extreme displeasure crossed his gaze. "She will be back tonight, I'd expect," she said sternly, still eyeing him. Erik opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, setting his noble lips in a hard line as he stared at her in silence. He seemed to be considering this information carefully, weighing his options before responding.

"Breakfast?" she urged, gesturing to the plate of cooling crepes and berry jam.

"Merci, Madame Giry, for all your help. But, I should be going. I have overstayed my welcome," Erik said quickly, glancing away from her to look around the modest kitchen. Antoinette snorted at this, gray eyes narrowed with scorn.

"Monsieur, you are not well enough to-," she began sternly, stopping as he cut her off with an uncompromising tone.

"No, Madame Giry. I am well, and I shall go now. Thank you." With that said, Erik abruptly walked from the kitchen without looking back. Madame Giry resisted the urge in her chest and did not follow him; she sat quietly at the table and began to slowly eat the warm crepe, flinching only slightly when she heard the front door slam behind him.

"Erik, you stubborn fool," she whispered to herself, setting down her fork and staring at the crepe on her plate, appetite gone.

Although the late spring morning was warm, Erik wrapped himself tightly in his heavy black cloak, anxious to ward off the stares of any curious pedestrians he might encounter on the streets of Paris. The Opera Populaire loomed over the buildings before him, a massive shadow over the sunny streets and buildings of the city. He could smell her presence clinging to the fine fabric of his cloak and he grimaced, unable to stop himself from drawing in a deep breath of the midsummer aroma he had come to dread and desire simultaneously.

Glancing around to check for any suspicious spectators and finding none, Erik hurried up the steps of the Opera house to force the doors open and disappear within. He found the oppressive silence and unbroken darkness of the theatre comforting; the stillness was far more appealing to him than the sounds of the crowded Mason de Giry. Not pausing to examine his domain, he hurried down into the vast chasms of the resonant basement into the perpetual night – his isolated home. Erik found the cavernous alcove pitch black, all the ivory candles extinguished by time.

The darkness suited him and he found he was strangely tempted to leave the candles unlit. Deciding to remain in comforting night for now, Erik sat at the organ bench and lightly caressed the ivory keys with his gloved fingers, bitterly remembering the last time he had roused the grand instrument from its silent slumber. Trembling slightly, he began to press down on the keys, only to find that he could not bring himself to do it. The notes would feel as empty to him as his hollow home, his tender heart.

Erik lifted his hands from the keys and dropped them to his sides, finding the eerie silence of his home both reassuring and repugnant. His ears pricked as he heard a splash, the sound distorted by distance and resonance. "A falling stone?" he thought, laughing silently at his own anxiety. Again, a faint sound echoed in the hollows of the basement and Erik compulsively shivered, a tingling chill running up his spine. He glanced around his home and sighed as he remembered that he had never lit the candles; the darkness of the room would provide the perfect concealment for him, should anyone foolishly choose to enter his domain. Erik quietly rose from his seat at the organ bench and made his way into his familiar hideaway – the dank hallways behind the shattered mirrors through which he had once made his frantic escape.

The splashes began to draw closer, the sounds amplifying and multiplying in the vast darkness. Erik crouched low in the shadows, peering out into the infinite blackness of his realm with sharp eyes squinted but predominantly useless. Suddenly, a pale shape began to materialize in the darkness, shimmering in his the distant reaches of his imperfect night vision. "A ghost?" he thought, only to immediately scold himself for resorting to ridiculous superstition. Erik grinned slightly, whispering to himself, "Foolish Phantom, don't you remember that you are the only ghost?"

Under the echoes of the splashing footsteps he began to hear gasping breath, the ragged tones of sobbing. His jaw dropped as he stared out over the watery plane; Christine was inexplicably standing, crying and soaked at his somber doorstep.

He stared, immobilized in disbelief, as she deftly broached the heavy gate and made her way into the still lake that bordered his cavernous lodgings. Christine's plain working dress floated in the dark water around her, a modest wedding train for an even humbler gown. Erik drank in her delicate form with his keen eyesight, unhindered by the familiarly perpetual night of his intimidating surroundings. For a moment he lost himself in the vast abyss of memory – Christine was not the callous Vicomtess, but instead the beautiful Mademoiselle Daeé, naïve, untouched, and innocently adoring. He quickly freed himself from this fantasy with a brusque shake of his head, noting rather bitterly that the Vicomtess de Chagny was as (if not more) beautiful than Mademoiselle Daaé had been.

Dropping even lower in the shadows of his dark alcove behind the mirrors, Erik tried desperately to slow his ragged breathing to a dull murmur. "She must not know that I am here," he told himself silently, embittered mind battling to control the urgings of his raw heart. Christine ascended the shore of the murky lake, dragging the coarse fabric of her paltry dress from the frigid water onto the sand and squinting to see in the pitch black of the resonant chamber. He could hear her breathing in the heavy silence of the room, fast and frantic, until she interrupted the crystalline spell with the sound of her voice.

"Foolish girl, to think you would find anything here but darkness," she said to herself, scorn saturating her tone. Frowning into the blackness that surrounded her, Christine hoarsely whispered, "Oh, Angel…" Erik unconsciously flinched at the haunting sound of her sweet voice producing his dreaded nickname, but made no movement to shed his concealment. Doubt flooded his consciousness – his mind told him that to foolishly place his emotions on the guillotine would be absurd. Simultaneously, every fiber of his being willed him to end his desperate charade and plead, beg her to forgive him for his stubborn cruelty, his madness. But he could not, would not. He cowered behind the broken mirrors and frayed curtains, hiding from both the memory of heartbreak and the terror of hope. As Erik mournfully watched from the darkness, Christine began to sing, almost whispering the words into the empty night that enveloped her.

_Raoul I've seen him – can I ever forget that sight? _

_ Can I ever escape from that face,_

_ So distorted, deformed that it was hardly a face in the darkness? _

_ Darkness…_

Erik felt tears threaten his fragile dignity as pain flooded him, drowning him in an inescapable wave of self-loathing. They felt like acid, poisonous and searing in their intensity. He closed his eyes, trying weakly to shut out the painful reality of her lonely serenade and shelter himself in darkness. Christine tried to choke back the rising sobs in her throat and continued, torturing herself with the foolish words she had once so naively sung to the innocent boy she was to eventually marry.

_But his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound… _

_ In the night there was music in my mind. _

_ And from music my soul began to soar, _

_ And I heard as I'd never heard before._

Erik winced as her words floated through him, softly tearing from him all grasp of pride he had desperately retained. The tears began to overflow from his eyes, crashing waves of salty sorrow flowing over pale cheeks and beneath the cold, unflinching leather of his mask. The Phantom quietly answered Christine's song, the words he had once angrily listened to in concealment expelled in a shaking breath that he bitterly wished could be his last: "What you heard was a dream and nothing more…" His broken voice was lost into the vast cavern and Christine did not hear him above the mournful resonance that encompassed her.

_Yet in his eyes I saw all the sadness in the world,_

_ Those pleading eyes that both threatened and adored._

Christine stood stiffly in the dark as the lingering echoes of her song slowly faded into nothing. Erik carefully rose in the shadows of his hiding place and turned from the devastating beauty of his former pupil, walking silently into the labyrinth of dark passageways that would eventually liberate him from the depths of his waking Hell.

"_What you heard was a dream and nothing more…"_ Christine whispered into the crystalline silence, feeling as though something crucial had finally shattered within her chest.

* * *

Erik habitually balked under the unforgiving light of the garish summer sun, shielding his gaze from its alien brightness with a gloved hand. He did not turn to glance at the ruined Opera Populaire, though he knew it still loomed ominously over the Parisian landscape as he continually avoided the charred skeleton of his inescapable past. The Opera house was a nagging reminder of all he wished to forget as he desperately threw himself into the construction of his new life.

"Monsieur Claudin? Would you like to see it now?" Erik turned to the speaker with a scathing sneer already coloring his intimidating countenance.

"Oui, Fabrice. I am always overjoyed to see what new havoc you and your craftsmen have wrought on my home," he spat venomously at the portly man staring at him, obviously distressed by his master's familiar scorn. Fabrice paled, nodding slightly and shuffling up the steps to the grand household, sweat pouring down his brow. Erik grimaced at the sight of him and strode into the unfinished Mason de Claudin, prepared for whatever new disaster his repugnant contractor had given birth to.

"Fabrice, did I not instruct that the staircase was to reflect my designs precisely?" Livid with his now characteristic fury, the masked man brusquely gestured to the blueprints spread across the dusty floor while staring fixedly at the beautifully constructed staircase before him. Fabrice fumbled with the blueprints, glancing in terror from his detectably enraged master to the meticulously crafted banister pieces and curving mahogany steps.

"Oui, Monsieur Claudin. I am sorry – we shall fix it right away," the terrified craftsman sputtered, nodding apologetically before frantically running from the room to find his crew of workers. Erik snorted in disgust, fixing the imperfectly assembled staircase with a searing stare. It had been over a month since he'd abandoned the Opera Populaire and Erik had since devoted his life to his new home – a tedious project conceived more to occupy him than out of real need. His years at the Opera Populaire had left him with a small fortune that fueled his eclectic pursuits without the slightest difficulty, even if the current enterprise demanded the purchase of a rather large estate along with the necessary modifications and furnishings.

And still, his thoughts constantly clung to Christine; at night he was haunted by the lingering image of her standing alone in the dark abyss of his dungeon-like home as her pleading song faded into an eerie echo around her. "You do not love her," he whispered softly, countenance frigid as he glared at the dissatisfactory staircase. His derision was interrupted by a tug at the sleeve of his black overcoat and plaintive voice.

"Monsieur Claudin? Letter for you," chirped a disheveled young boy, his blue eyes wide with curiosity as he stared unabashedly at Erik's mask. Erik rolled his eyes in bitter exasperation as he took the letter, dropped a few coins into the boy's dirty hand, and brusquely gestured him to the door, desperate to interrupt the youngster's prying examination of his leather façade. The boy hesitated for a long moment before he could tear his fascinated stare from the mysterious man and skip from the house, humming merrily as he did. Erik sighed in exasperation and ran his hand through his dark hair, staring at the crumpled letter in his hand before moving to break the seal.

_Erik, _

_ You stubborn bastard. It's taken weeks to come across any word of you at all, let alone obtain your new address. How horrifically rude of you not to contact us. That aside, I am writing to inform you that the Vicomtess de Chagny has fallen ill. Naturally, Meg and I are taking the necessary steps to bring about her recovery, but I fear her condition is not improving as we would like. I thought it fit to inform you as such, despite any disagreement you may have with me on the matter. Come and see us, please. If not for her, for me. _

_ Sincèrement,_

_ Antoinette Giry

* * *

_

Madame Giry deftly folded the envelope shut and poured burning wax over the crease, moving quickly to firmly press down the heavy seal while the wax remained hot. She sighed as she considered the sealed letter in her hands, weighing the possible repercussions of its contents. Christine stirred in the bed behind her and Antoinette set down the letter, turning from the desk to regard the ailing girl with her forehead creased with worry.

"Am I doing the right thing?" she murmured to the fitfully sleeping girl, more asking herself than any one else in the silent bedroom. Christine did not answer and Madame Giry nodded to herself, sadly knowing in her heart of hearts that Erik was the only remedy that could cure the young woman of her resilient illness.

When Christine had knocked weakly on the door about a month ago, Madame Giry had known without a doubt that something was very wrong. Antoinette found the girl slumped against the door in the dark, chilled to the bone by the cool nighttime air. Christine's modest work dress was soaked through with water and Madame Giry feared she knew its origin all too well. Exhausted, Christine hung limply in the older woman's grasp, pallor almost blue and lips white. It had been a day of surprises, between Erik's abrupt departure from the Giry household and Christine's disappearance on "business". And less than twenty-four hours later, Madame Giry found herself supporting every ounce of her houseguest's slight mass in a house that had recently seemed so crowded, but in the dark of night seemed eerily empty. It was in the following days that Christine had numbly surrendered to her illness, seemingly abandoning all will to live upon Erik's unexpected disappearance.

Madame Giry watched mournfully as Christine tossed in her sleep, her delicate face shining with perspiration as she unconsciously mouthed soundless words to people who were not there, or would not listen. Antoinette rose from her seat and took the letter from the table, carefully concealing it in the pocket of her overcoat.

"Hold on, my beautiful girl, hold on," she murmured to the sleeping girl, gray eyes brimming with rare tears.

* * *

The servants both flinched as another crash resounded through the house, sending reverberations through the hardwood floors and crystal chandeliers. Gaspard shook his head, glancing at Seraphine nervously as they watched the clear water in the crystal pitcher ripple.

"What is he _doing_?" she spat angrily, throwing her knitting on the table next to the pitcher and shooting a disdainful look down the dimly candlelit hall to the master's bedroom. "Trying to tear apart the house he just had rebuilt?" Gaspard sighed heavily, staring blankly at the table as his wife huffed.

"It's none of our affair," he muttered, reaching out to pour himself a glass of water. Seraphine stared at him in disgust, dark eyes narrow with fury.

"None of our affair? Well, I am the one who's going to be cleaning it tomorrow! None of our affair…" She trailed off, cursing colorfully under he breath as Gaspard tried to ignore her and calmly sipped his water. When she did not stop ranting, he set down the glass and turned to his volatile wife, honest eyes pleading with her.

"He was kind to give us a job. Remember that, Seraphine." Gaspard frowned slightly, remembering the strange events that had led to their current position. He and his wife had been living in Paris for less than a year and had spent most of that time trying to scrape by with meager earnings they pinched here and there. They had worked as street peddlers, hired help at a small patisserie, and eventually, beggars. On a warm night in the last days of spring, they had been looking to stay the night at a cheap inn when they stumbled across a strange man passed out in an alley. His face was half obscured by a fearsome white mask, which Seraphine found distressing. She was just insisting they leave when the man stirred, suddenly looking up at Gaspard with a startlingly blue gaze.

"Do you need help, Monsieur?" Gaspard asked quietly, slightly taken aback by the intensity of the man's eyes and the sinister presence of the white mask on his face. The man smiled mockingly, his noble lips twisting into a bitter sneer. "Beg pardon, Monsieur. We'd like to help if we can." Seraphine tugged urgently on his arm but Gaspard found himself strangely drawn to this alarming man, and resisted.

"No. I do not need help. Go," the man said gruffly, his voice deep and apparently unhindered by the drink he had obviously consumed. Gaspard hesitated, unsure, and the man spoke again: "GO!" Seraphine snorted, suddenly struck by the rudeness of the strange man they had happened upon and unwilling to tolerate it.

"Excuse me, but I do not think you are in any position to be giving orders, Monsieur," she sneered, startling Gaspard and momentarily rendering the stranger speechless. He stared at her coldly, seeming to consider her with his frigid gaze.

"Fine. Help me then. What do you plan to do, Madame?" he said mockingly, lips curling slightly into a malicious grin. Seraphine paused a moment, ruefully regarding the appallingly gauche man before deciding on a response.

"We will take you home," she said abruptly. Gaspard's jaw dropped as he turned to stare at his wife in disbelief. "Where do you live?" she asked, ignoring Gaspard's dubious stare.

"Madame, I do not need help. Thank you, but no," the masked man laughed bitterly, the sound forced and frightening and his eyes absent of any trace of amusement.

"Monsieur, I insist." Seraphine stared at him stubbornly, now inexplicably resolved to aid this unforgivably discourteous drunkard. His face went cold and he fixed her with a long, calculating stare, as if judging the strength of her zeal with his eyes alone.

"As you wish, Madame…" he hissed, disturbing Gaspard with the venom in his deep voice. The masked man proceeded to eloquently direct the two peasants to his home while they supported him between them, both reeling slightly under the limp weight of his powerful form. His stumbling gate betrayed his drunkenness and hindered their progress, but in a short time they reached a towering mason. They helped him up the step, both glancing rather doubtfully at one another as they regarded the grand estate and the drunken man before them. To their collective surprise, the man produced a key from the depths of his dark overcoat and unlocked the heavy doors, throwing them open with ease and stumbling into the dark entryway.

"Come in! You might as well, dear patrons. Dear Samaritans. Come!" Glancing at each other rather nervously, Gaspard and Seraphine stepped into the dark residence, pulling the heavy doors shut behind them. "Feel free to stay the night!" their patron slurred in mock cheer, the weight of his drink obviously sinking in more severely now. He disappeared down the barely candlelit hall, swaying precariously to the last door and throwing it open to vanish within. Both Gaspard and Seraphine started as the door slammed behind him and squinted to try and make out their vast surroundings. The grand estate was in obvious disarray; the staircase was in the midst of being torn down and some of the gaudy wallpaper was stripped haphazardly from the walls.

Shrugging, Gaspard grinned sheepishly at Seraphine and murmured, "Well, you got us here. Shall we stay the night?" Ignoring the mocking in Gaspard's tone, Seraphine glanced nonchalantly about the dark entryway, as if feigning that none of the events of the evening were out of the ordinary. "Strange fellow, eh?" Gaspard muttered, abandoning his playful attempt to needle his quick-tempered spouse.

"I rather like him," Seraphine said bluntly, surprising herself as well as Gaspard with her unexpected statement. "I suppose we should find a room," she said quietly, glancing at her husband before making her way down the dark hall.

Gaspard smiled slightly as he remembered the bizarre events of that night, now more than a month behind them. The next day, after waking from a drunken slumber, their masked patron had introduced himself to his puzzled guests as Monsieur Claudin and unexpectedly offered the couple positions as servants in his vast household. They had accepted immediately, too desperate for work to reject the strange man's generous offer, despite what eccentricities he had displayed thus far.

"He never thanked us properly, you know," Seraphine muttered offhand, taking a sip out of her husband's glass of water.

"Oui, I know," Gaspard said, listening to the powerful rumblings of the master's continued assault on his own bedroom. "I know."

* * *

"Good God!" The Phantom threw the elegant bougeoir at the mirror, finding only fleeting pleasure in the resulting crash as glass shattered all over the luxurious burgundy carpet. The crumpled letter burned in his pocket, searing his flesh with its mere presence and the painful reminder of its message.

"Why? Why, Antoinette?" he bellowed, reaching to tear the letter from his pocket and violently throw it across the room. He watched as it floated softly to the ground, landing lightly on the twisted sheets of his grand four-poster bed. "Why did you have to do this, you stubborn woman? Leave me be…" Erik's fierce voice faded into a hoarse whisper as he fell to his knees on the thick rug, hands held to his face. "Leave me be… Christine." He felt the leather mask beneath his fingers and ripped it from his face, throwing it across the room with all the force he could muster. He tore the black gloves from his hands and feverishly ran his bare fingers over the ravaged skin of his face, the skin wet with angry tears. Erik dissolved into rasping sobs, choking out the piteous words he had once spat in the face of the beautiful woman he would have done anything for. That he would have killed for, died for.

_Hounded out by everyone, met with hatred everywhere._

_ No kind words from anyone, no compassion anywhere._

_ Christine… why? WHY?

* * *

_

Gaspard pushed the key into the lock of the master's bedroom door and slowly pushed the door open, careful not to make any sound that would disturb the fearsome man. The sight that greeted him did not surprise him in the least; the dimly lit room was strewn with broken furniture and glass, and a bottle of brandy lay empty on the floor at his feet. Circumventing the elaborately curtained master bed, Gaspard walked to the window and eased open the draperies, relishing the effect sunlight had on the gloomy bedroom. No sound came from the bed and the manservant let out a small sigh of relief, glad that the master had at last succumbed to peaceful sleep.

Hesitating only momentarily, he quietly tiptoed to the grand bed and drew aside the velvet curtains a fraction of an inch to peer upon the sleeping man within. Face blanching in shock, he forcefully threw aside the heavy tapestries, gaping in disbelief at the obviously empty bed before him.


	11. Se Rendre de Soimême

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Eleven: ****Se Rendre de Soi-même**

Madame Giry tapped her cane on the worn hardwood floor of her modest parlor, watching intently as the children forced their lithe bodies into the difficult ballet positions.

"Pay attention!" she said sternly, urging the children on with the beat of her black cane. "Very good, Océane. Not bad, Aimée." A sharp knock at the door interrupted Madame Giry's critique and she sighed in exasperation. "One moment," she muttered to her pupils, walking stiffly from the room to the front hall of her modest home. She brusquely threw open the door, already fixing a cold expression on her face. A pair of cold blue eyes and a sinister white mask met her reprimanding gaze and Madame Giry froze, mouth gaping slightly as she stared into the face of the estranged Phantom of the Opera.

"Bonjour, Madame Giry," Erik said nonchalantly, nodding slightly to the stunned woman in the doorway. "I received your letter." His voice was remarkably cold, she noted, and his expression beneath the familiar mask was as closed as she'd ever seen it. Antoinette frowned slightly, looking past Erik to the edgy looking man standing behind him on the step. Noticing her questioning look, Erik cleared his throat, saying tersely, "This is Docteur D'Aubigne. I have brought him to examine the Vicomtess de Chagny, should you allow him." The Doctor was a portly man, but the sweat decorating his brow did not appear to be from the heat of the summer sun so much as from the emotional distress brought on by his proximity to the intensely intimidating Phantom. Erik did tend to have that effect on people.

Glancing from the visibly anxious doctor to the unreadable countenance of her old friend, Madame Giry nodded curtly, ushering them inside with a sweep of her arm. She tried to ignore the curious stares of the young dancers as she hurriedly led them to the door, still wearing their ballet uniforms, telling them the lesson was over for the day. She could feel the Phantom's cold eyes on her back as she shut the door behind the bewildered children, and she struggled to compose herself before turning to face the imposing man and his cowering guest.

"This way," she said quietly, leading them down the hall to the guest bedroom, where Christine had been precariously living for the last month. Madame Giry cracked the door and peered in to verify that Christine was still asleep. Gesturing to the men that they should be quiet, Antoinette opened the door. The nervous doctor looked to Erik for instructions, too timid to step forward without instruction.

"D'Aubigne, what are just you standing there for? Go!" Erik hissed, pushing the man into the room and closing the door firmly behind him before Madame Giry could protest.

"You aren't even going to see her?" Antoinette spat, glaring at Erik as he blatantly avoided her eyes. Anger filling her with a sense of ill-advised purpose, the woman impulsively grasped the Phantom's broad shoulders and forced him to look at her, his blue eyes sparking beneath the cold white surface of the mask. "Still a coward, I see." Erik flinched as she spoke and pulled violently from her grasp, the emotion in his movements betraying the feelings he was trying so hard to conceal from her.

"Why did you contact me? Why?" he said rigidly, trying desperately to hold his emotions in check as he straightened his black overcoat, hands visibly shaking despite his efforts. He could feel Madame Giry's stern eyes on him as he stared away from her, afraid to regard her for what he might see in her gaze. Pity? Scorn? Disgust? Erik could not bear to look; he had seen those emotions for too long in the faces of too many people.

"Because she needs you," she whispered. He spun around, pale face immediately contorted in agony beneath the unflinching mask as he let go of all pretense of control and roared at her in hysterical desperation.

"Why, Antoinette? No one needs a monster, a beast, Madame! Why have you done this?" Erik's face was ashen as he grasped her by the shoulders, roughly shaking her as he yelled at her, anguish turning his cold eyes wildly vibrant. "WHY?" Madame Giry did not pull from his hold; she took the brutal storm in the face, not severing eye contact with the callous Phantom as his carefully maintained façade fell before her eyes. His deep voice shattered and he whispered hoarsely, his face only inches from hers, "Why?" Erik dropped heavily to his knees before her, trembling hands held over his blanched face. "I cannot do it again, Antoinette. I cannot," he pleaded hoarsely, still not looking at her from behind his hands.

The door to the bedroom flew open and Docteur D'Aubigne looked out, face red with indignation. When he saw the Phantom on the floor he hesitated momentarily, some of the blood draining from his bloated face until his complexion was a mottled mess of color. Erik growled dangerously with displeasure and jumped to his feet, smoothing his dark hair back with a visibly shaking hand and avoiding the confused stare of the jumpy doctor.

"You must be quiet. You will wake her," the doctor muttered unhappily, throwing a frightened glance at Erik as he did. The Phantom made no response; in fact, Antoinette noted that he had reestablished his favored expression of impenetrable distance, his blue eyes cutting and frigid and jaw set.

"I am sorry, Docteur," Madame Giry said quietly, throwing D'Aubigne a genuinely apologetic glance. The doctor wiped a shaky hand across his sweating brow and disappeared within the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Antoinette walked to Erik's side and laid a cautious hand on his broad shoulder, only to find it tense beneath her touch.

"Fine. Be stubborn. It won't hurt anyone but you, in the end," Madame Giry spat, whirling from him to storm into her bedroom at the end of the hall and slam the door behind her in a fit of exasperation.

* * *

Meg started as the Phantom appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, his imposing black form almost filling the doorframe. He stopped when he saw her, retreating slightly as if expecting her to scream in horror at his mere presence. Beneath his sinister mask she almost believed she could detect fear in his icy eyes, but quickly dismissed the thought as mere fancy.

"Sit down," she said softly, gesturing to the empty seat at the table. "Would you like some tea?" Meg almost laughed at herself; she had never imagined she would find herself in any position to courteously offer the Phantom of the Opera tea. He hesitated at the doorway for a moment before walking to the chair and sitting down in a motion so graceful Meg found she could hardly characterize it as human. She found herself staring at him and shook herself from the daze, standing quickly to pour him a cup of tea. Half rising from the table, the Phantom shook his head, meeting her eyes for a moment before again sitting and dropping his searing gaze to his gloved hands.

Meg paused before sitting, almost tempted to simply leave the kitchen and shut herself in the sanctuary of her empty bedroom. "Don't be a fool," she told herself internally, seating herself at the empty chair, across the table from the imposing houseguest. The room then fell into a heavy silence, the tension so tangible that Meg mused she could probably taste it, if she tried. Instead, she fixed a curious gaze on the Phantom as he stared blankly at his hands.

"Monsieur, what should I call you?" she asked suddenly, immediately horrified at her own impulsive nature. Before she could apologize, the Phantom looked up and met her pale blue eyes, his eyes full of unusual surprise.

"Erik," he murmured, and Meg felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck as the soft rumble of his powerful voice sweep through her. She looked down at the table, suddenly embarrassed under the intensity of his gaze. Erik examined her as she avoided his calculating gaze, mildly amused by her innate air of subtle defiance. Blonde curls cascaded gently across her brow, obscuring her pale blue eyes as she stared at the table. Suddenly, a thought came to him, the unexpected realization surprising him into uncharacteristically curious speech.

"Was it you who gave Christine my mask?" Meg started, looking up to sheepishly meet his eyes. Erik almost forgot not to smile; in Little Meg's eyes he saw both weak apology and haughty (and strangely familiar) audacity.

"Oui, Monsieur. I mean – Erik. How did you know?"

"I just guessed," he muttered tersely. Meg smiled slightly at this curt response and Erik had to struggle not to return the expression. He had never noticed before how much like the young Madame Giry Meg looked. He was just about to tell this to the girl when she broke the silence with a question that shook Erik to his core.

"Do you love her, Erik?" Marguerite asked, pale blue eyes sparking dangerously as she held his gaze. He found himself stuttering, callous façade shattered in the face of Mademoiselle Giry's daring query. Erik fought to rein the violent emotions surging forth to overtake him, to irrefutably destroy any residual dignity he might still salvage. Her gaze still held his, trapping him in his miserable internal battle as she scrutinized him, watching as irrepressible hysteria filled his cold eyes. "Do you love her, Erik?"

His control quickly crumbling to nothing, Erik snapped. He reached across the table desperately, feverishly seizing Meg's petit shoulders as he prepared to rail on her, to curse and deride her for her prying, her indecency, and her damned wisdom. She did not so much as flinch as he took a painful hold on her with shaking hands, staring her down with fury lighting his eyes until they appeared almost unnaturally vivid. Meg found herself less frightened by this hysterical, undeniably humanman than by the cold, remorseless front he habitually depended upon. Just as Erik opened his mouth to let loose his fury upon Marguerite, the creak of the bedroom door opening in the hall reached their ears and he dropped his hands from her shoulders, face blanching beneath the white mask as if he had been awakened from some nightmare. Erik bolted from his chair to instantaneously vanish into the hall, leaving Meg slightly stunned, mouth gaping as she recognized the importance of the agony she had just witnessed in the Phantom's frigid gaze.

* * *

Madame Giry and Doctor D'Aubigne stood over the bed, staring down pensively at the sleeping girl before them. They both started as the Phantom appeared suddenly in the doorway, blue eyes wide with unconcealed concern. He hesitated as he made out Christine's petite form in the bed and lingered in the doorway, unwilling to advance into the bedroom. Madame Giry glanced at D'Aubigne, trying to prompt the terrified doctor into some kind of sound.

"Monsieur Claudin, the Vicomtess is very weak," D'Aubigne forced out, voice shaking with anxiety as the Phantom stared menacingly at him from the doorway. "I suggest she be kept under medical supervision at all times. With proper treatment, she shall recover." Erik's face made no change beneath the ghostly mask, but Madame Giry was sure she saw something like relief flicker in his eyes. He stiffly walked to the bedside, face tightening as he approached the sleeping woman.

Erik felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared down on his angel, her lithe body tangled in the worn sheets of her bed with one pale hand flung over her painfully beautifully face. Her dark hair framed her visage - a web of mahogany curls spreading across the pillow like a strange halo. Erik compulsively winced as he noted her bloodless pallor and sunken alabaster cheeks; the month of illness had stripped her of all softness and left her hauntingly gaunt. Blanched with shock beneath his emotionless mask, Erik turned to face Madame Giry and the doctor.

"Madame Giry, I will take her to my estate and have her cared for there. Merci, for all of your attention, but I believe it would be simpler to house her myself," he whispered hoarsely, a vast depth of pleading evident in his cold gaze. Antoinette nodded, struck silent in her surprise as she eyed the Phantom thoughtfully. Erik paused momentarily, looking down on the sleeping angel before him in stony silence. Then, wiping his face of all detectable emotion, Erik leaned forward to take the frail girl in his powerful grasp, lifting her as if she were a feather. He tried not to shudder in disbelief as her lifeless body filled his arms, a delicate hand draped limply over his broad shoulders.

"Docteur D'Aubigne, help Madame Giry gather the Vicomtess's belongings and then bring them to the house, immediately," Erik stated calmly, carefully concealing the tremors of aching concern in his voice. The doctor nodded nervously as the Phantom walked from the room with the Vicomtess cradled in his arms.

* * *

Gaspard and Seraphine stared thoughtfully into their cocoa as they sat at the kitchen table, lost in their own private reflections. Only a few hours prior, the master had suddenly burst through the door of the Mason de Claudin, a beautiful girl neither servant recognized draped across his arms. Without a word, he proceeded down the hall to place the unconscious girl in the grand four-poster bed of one of the many luxurious guest bedrooms. Gaspard was stunned to say the least; in the master's usually tightly controlled face he saw raging emotion and in his frigid eyes he saw something like fear. Seraphine tactfully ignored the master's silence and helped prepare the bedroom without question, controlling her aching curiosity. When the Phantom was not looking, she examined the girl with a scrutinizing eye, trying to determine her identity by her appearance and failing to discover anything but that the girl was hauntingly beautiful, even if obviously deathly ill. As she worked she watched the master's movements, hoping desperately that something in his actions would explain the unexpected arrival of the young woman. Seraphine found no explanation but was stunned by the immense sadness she saw in her master's usually cold eyes; the fearsome man was stricken with grief, petrified by fear.

Now the two servants sat at the kitchen table in silence, both secretly waiting for some ultimatum, any explanation for the mysterious girl's presence here to present itself to them. Gaspard was just opening his mouth to speak when an urgent knock at the front door of the house shattered the tense silence, rousing the servants from their ponderings. Seraphine was first to the door with Gaspard not far behind. Pausing to collect herself only slightly, the anxious woman threw open the heavy door, impatient to see what new face would present itself on the other side.

"Seraphine, bonsoir," Docteur D'Aubigne said timidly, glancing into the hall behind her with fear in his pale eyes. "Where is Monsieur Claudin?" The doctor was visibly shaken, his already splotchy cheeks pallid with apprehension and the handle to a large, bulging suitcase clutched in one shaking hand.

"We believe he is in with the girl," Gaspard murmured quickly, throwing Seraphine a silencing glance as the doctor's eyes widened. "D'Aubigne, who is she?" he asked quietly, piercing the timid doctor with a purposely intimidating stare.

"The Victomess de Chagny," the doctor whispered quickly, obviously as baffled by the situation as the servants were. Gaspard and Seraphine looked at each other in dubious surprise before pressing forward on the doctor, desperate to know more. Retreating with his bloated face pale with fear, the rotund man shrugged feebly, unable to provide any more information to the anxious servants. Seraphine sighed in bitter displeasure, ushering the doctor into the front hall with a brusque wave of her arm.

"Follow me, Docteur."

* * *

Erik could smell Christine's intoxicating scent clinging to his elegant clothing – the aroma of a midsummer night's flora familiarly pungent and overwhelming. "Why have you done this to yourself?" he whispered into the silent room, despair filling his melodious tone. He clung to the armrests of the chair in which he sat stiffly, white knuckled as he deliberately stared away from the bed in which Christine lay, unconscious and unknowing. The candles threw eerie light on the finely papered walls of the darkening bedroom and Erik found he was immediately repulsed by his own ominous shadow. The horrifying shadow of a dreaded monster.

As the carriage had swept them towards his unfinished estate, Erik had stared in disbelief at the unconscious girl in his arms. In her blind sleep Christine had clung to him, elegant fingers clinging possessively to his repugnant form as the carriage bounced along the cobbled streets of Paris. Erik had found himself flooded with a feeling of debilitating agony as he gazed down on Christine's angelic visage, her dark eyelashes curling against her alabaster cheeks like dark crescent moons. Air slid through her soft lips and he could feel the light caress of her breath against the skin of his shaking hand, his cold palm held protectively beneath her head as she slept. He had quivered to feel the slight weight of her petit form in his arms, the contours of her elegant neck in his trembling palm. And he had quivered at his own feeling of shame; only in sleep would she allow his loathed touch. The touch of a savage beast, a repulsive carcass.

Erik sat stiffly in the chair, unable to bring himself to look on her, his nightmarish presence unknown to her as she peacefully slept on sheets of crimson silk.

"When she wakes, she will leave you," he whispered helplessly into the still room, voice hoarse with despair. "Lonesome gargoyle." He heard Christine stir slightly behind him and turned, blue eyes full of concern. As his eyes fell on her still-sleeping face he felt the breath torn violently from his lungs. Her beauty stripped him of his pride; her beauty defeated him every time.

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_

_ Yearning for my guidance._

_ Have you forgotten your angel?_

Erik quietly sung the words to her as the angel slept, desperately pleading with Christine as he could not in the waking world. The words hung in the room, a crystalline ringing that made his vivid eyes fill with irrepressible tears. "I love her," he whispered. The undeniable truth of the simple words flooded his being before he could resist, before he could murder the insistent beating of his longing heart with a bitter word, an angry rebuttal. "I love her." Tears escaped from his eyes and traced saline rivers down his ravaged face, wetting the gruesome skin beneath his unfeeling façade. Christine frowned in her sleep, her flawless visage creasing with light lines that he knew had not been there only two years before.

"I love you," he said hopelessly, gazing into the sleeping angel's face. Christine did not respond; she was a prisoner of her nightmares, unaware of the agonized tears staining her Angel's marred countenance or the agony incensing his melodious voice. In her feverish sleep, she only saw the dark horror of night. Eyes never leaving her beautiful face, Erik stood unsteadily and walked stiffly to the door. Finally tearing his gaze from his angel's haunting form, he left the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

"Coward," he whispered in the dark, oppressively silent hall. "Coward."

* * *

"I'm dreaming," Christine stated blandly, looking down to find herself waist deep in swirling water. The chasms of the Phantom's dark domain sang back at her: "Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming…" and Christine smiled sadly, thinking that the resonant voice of the shadows sounded painfully familiar. Squinting in the heavy darkness, Christine forged forward through the frigid water, following the tingling down her spine that she knew would lead her to her master, her Angel of Music. She reached out with her bare hands out in the pitch black, blindly groping for something to lead her. When no one returned her touch, she sighed and pressed on, now determined to abandon her fear. "I am dreaming," she reminded herself, the whisper echoing in the caverns so that the air was full of ringing. Christine tried to deter fright and sang softly in the dark, reaching out into the shadows with her angelic voice.

_Too many years fighting back tears,_

_ Why can't the past just die?_

_ Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_ Knowing we must say goodbye._

Christine perceived the glow of candlelight before her and lurched towards it, her body numbed senseless by the freezing murk of the underground lake. She sang on, desperate to call her master to her side.

_Try to forgive – teach me to live,_

_ Give me the strength to try._

_ No more memories, _

_ No more silent tears,_

_ No more gazing across the wasted years._

She was almost yelling the words as she rounded a corner and found herself at the algae-encrusted gate that marked the entrance to Erik's lair. Through the rusty grate she could see his cavernous lodgings – the candles fully lit and the organ bench deserted. Frowning to find his home empty, Christine deftly penetrated the gate and made her way into the icy lake at his doorstep, peering around the vast alcove in desperation as she whispered the last melancholy words of the mournful song.

_Help me say goodbye,_

_ Help me say goodbye…_

Christine dragged her waterlogged skirts onto the sandy shore behind her, squinting hopefully into the dimly lit corners of the estate as if she would find Erik standing in the shadows, waiting to be found. When her search yielded no such discovery, Christine frowned and whispered, "Where is my beautiful Angel?" The words echoed violently in the rocky chamber and the dusty candelabras all seemed to shake on their stands in the wake of the roaring resonance. "Where is he?" she screamed, voice high and pleading as she hurried through the various rooms of Erik's empty home. "Where are you, Angel? Where are you?"

"I love you," the darkness sang and Christine whipped around, desperate to find the owner of the melodious voice so full of agony. "I love you." Tears began to spill from Christine's dark eyes as she stared out over the abandoned cavern, devastated.

"Have I lost you, my love?" she begged with the silence.

"I love you."

* * *

The dim candlelight almost blinded Christine as her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright in the bed, body shaking violently amidst the crimson sheets of an unfamiliar bed. She screamed, falling back against the headboard with her heart pounding.

"Where? WHERE ARE YOU?" she cried out, voice high and broken with hysteria. An army of hands forced her back into the blood-red sheets and she struggled desperately against her invisible assailants.

Gaspard struggled to hold her to the bed as she thrashed, the intense terror in her wide eyes disturbing him even as he tried to help her. Docteur D'Aubigne met Gaspard's eyes across the bed and perceived the horror in the manservant's eyes.

"She is taken by the fever. She does not know what she says," he stammered out, yelling over the bed to Gaspard as they both continued to attempt at restraining the girl. At the sound of the doctor's voice, Christine went dead still among the tangled sheets, dark eyes wide and glazed as they flickered about the room. Gaspard cringed at the blank look of her eyes; it was clear that although the Vicomtess stared she could not see what was before her. "It is just the fever," the doctor whispered. They watched as tears began to gather in the corners of her warm brown eyes and spill over, catching in her long lashes before tracking twisted paths down her pale cheeks. Gaspard flinched as the girl grasped his hand forcefully, pulling him down closer to her but not turning to look at him. She stared blankly at the ceiling as she whispered, "Where is my Angel?"

Gaspard threw a pleading glance at the doctor but the portly man offered no aid to the servant. Sighing in slight exasperation, Gaspard covered her hand with his and whispered, "Vicomtess, you must sleep. You must get some rest." Christine blinked slowly and turned to meet the servant's startled gaze, enveloping him with the sad depths of her mahogany eyes. "Erik?" she choked, voice hoarse with misery. Gaspard shook his head helplessly, ashamed that he could do nothing to help this beautiful, suffering creature before him.

"Where?" she gasped, "Where is my angel?" Gaspard felt tears begin to well in his eyes as the beautiful girl stared up at him, crying for someone who could not bring to her.

"Good God, if only I knew who you were asking for," he whispered down to her, squeezing her hand in his own. "If only." The Vicomtess looked away, eyes glazing as again she fell into the darkness of her fever.

"Erik!" she cried, frightening Gaspard with the desperation in her sweet voice. "ERIK!" she screamed, thrashing out at the men as they backed away from the bed helplessly abandon the angel to her feverish descent into madness.

* * *

In his study, Erik paced among the lit candelabras, unable to retreat into sleep and unwilling to drink himself into a pacifying stupor. The reality of the situation was harsh and ugly, and Erik found that, regrettably enough, he had too much pride left to run from it.

"Oh, Christine…" he whispered into the empty room, stopping his pacing to stare at the leather palms his gloved hands in disgusted contempt. "Vicomtess de Chagny," he spat bitterly, tightening his hands into angry fists and resuming his restless pacing. He could still feel the saline sting of past tears in his raw eyes and he cursed his weakness, his damned vulnerability to her power. The white mask clung to his face but the Phantom found its familiar, though sinister presence held no comfort for him.

_Erik…_

He stopped pacing, almost sure that he had heard his own name echo through the house, screamed in the night. Erik waited a few moments before snorting in bitter derision; hope had obviously poisoned his mind and muddled his senses.

"ERIK!" The scream shattered the silence of the house and Erik ran from his study, all too sure that he knew exactly who was shrieking his dreaded name like a curse.

Docteur D'Aubigne and Gaspard stood in the shadows outside the door of the bedroom, whispering urgently to one another as the girl raged within. They both jumped as the Phantom appeared beside them, face twisted into a terrifying grimace beneath the unflinching white mask.

"She is taken with fever, Monsieur Claudin. We must wait for her to wear herself out and sleep," the doctor stuttered idiotically, sweat beginning to pour down his bloated face as he stared at the ominous man before him.

"Have you nothing to give her – nothing to make her sleep?" Erik spat, listening in agony to the cries of the girl locked in the bedroom beside him. The doctor glanced at Gaspard as if searching for help and finding none, reached into his trouser pocket and brought forth a small glass bottle.

"Oui, Monsieur. But, it would be difficult to administer, under the circumstances…"

"Good," Erik said shortly, deftly snatching the bottle from Docteur D'Aubigne's shaking palm and quickly shutting himself within the guest bedroom.

Across the bedroom, Christine lay writhing in the crimson sheets, face contorted with terror as she cried out wordlessly at the ceiling. Erik shuddered at the sight of his beautiful angel, demonized by fear and illness. She seemed to still slightly as he approached the four-poster bed but did not turn to look at him. Her cheeks were paper-white and her dark eyes were bloodshot from weeping; Erik felt tears begin to well in his own eyes as he looked upon the devastation that lay before him.

"Where is my love?" Christine whispered hoarsely, still staring blankly at the ceiling. Erik flinched beneath his mask. "She pleads for that _boy_," he thought bitterly, watching as tears fell from her glazed eyes to wet the silk sheets beneath her, creating dark shadows in the scarlet fabric. He sighed, quietly taking a position at the bedside.

"I am here, Christine," he whispered, hands trembling at his sides as he pretended to be the one man he hated above all others, the foolish Vicomte de Chagny. Christine let loose a ragged sob and Erik compulsively grabbed her sweating palm, trying to comfort her with the contact. The touch of her skin against his almost destroyed him. Christine entwined her fingers with his, eyes closing as the tears continued to stain her bloodless cheeks.

"My love," she breathed, lips pulling into a small smile. Erik could swear he felt his heart burst within his chest. Fumbling with his free hand, he produced the medicine bottle and glanced hopelessly at Christine. He trembled violently as he reached out, medicine bottle concealed in his palm, and softly stroked her cheek, willing her to open her lips and allow him to administer that which would make her sleep.

Eyes still closed, Christine turned into his palm, resting her face against his skin. Erik shuddered at the sensation but forced himself to concentrate. He slid the bottle into his fingers and delicately poured its contents into her slightly gaping lips. She sputtered slightly and he cupped her face in his palm, hoping to comfort her. She swallowed and immediately lolled back in the sheets, face relaxed and tears ceasing.

"My love?" she pleaded with the silence, blindly reaching out to grasp Erik's hand with her eyes still closed. He drew a sharp intake of air and conceded to this humiliation, if only to be allowed to touch this angel.

"I am here, Christine," he whispered, hand clasped tightly in her own delicate grip. She pulled him towards her, begging for comfort as sleep began to overtake her exhausted senses. She brought him down into the sheets with her, wrapping his arms about her with their hands still clasped together at her chest. Tears slipped from Erik's eyes down his cheek and he stifled a sob rising in his throat as he felt Christine in his arms, mostly unconscious but undeniably real.

She turned on her side and brought her face within inches of his. He was relieved to note that sleep had taken her – her eyes were closed and her beautiful face relaxed. Erik's blue eyes went wide as he felt her breath on his skin; the agony of their proximity overwhelmed him – conquered him and left him empty. Their hands were entwined between their chests and he almost thought he could feel her steady heartbeat through the worn fabric of her dress. Erik leaned forward to place a stolen kiss on her bloodless cheek, agonizing over the velvet of her skin under his lips. He could still taste her mouth in his own, a flavor that had haunted him for over two years even as he tried desperately to wash it away, to free himself of its imprisonment. He sang softly to her as she slept, lulling her to sleep with an agonized lullaby from sad hours long past.

_Stranger than you dreamt it,_

_Can you even bear to look or dare to think of me?_

_This lonesome gargoyle who burns in hell_

_But secretly yearns for heaven, _

_ Secretly, secretly-_

Erik stopped singing mid-word, his voice stifled as Christine leaned forward and covered his lips with her mouth. He shuddered as her soft lips gently caressed his own, shuddered as he tasted the indelible flavor of her mouth in his, like the tang of ripe citrus. Erik thought he felt his heart stop within his chest, immobilized in this one moment of undeserved, unintended bliss.

Christine slowly pulled away, eyes still closed with sleep and lips wet with their kiss as she sleepily murmured, "Ah! There you are, my love. There you are."


	12. A Stubborn Man

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twelve: A Stubborn Man**

Gaspard groaned in displeasure as bright sunlight flooded the room, forcing its golden glow through his closed eyes. He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, desperate to delay his inevitable departure from the bliss of his bed. Seraphine stirred beside him, her soft cheek rested against his side as she slept on despite the glare of the persistent summer sun lighting their bedroom. Gaspard sighed disgustedly into the pillow as he opened his eyes and quietly left the bed, careful not to wake his sleeping wife.

The house was eerily silent as he lazily splashed water over his face and attempted to comb back his dark hair, and Gaspard prickled as a feeling of unease flooded his senses. The master rarely slept, and however quiet his movements through the house were there was usually some indication of his conscious presence even in the dawning hours of morning. The silence that had fallen over the Mason de Claudin was too encompassing – too complete. He was instantaneously alert; the anxiety that surged through Gaspard had released him from any residual effects of the lethargy he had felt upon waking. Glancing over to the bed and seeing that Seraphine was still sound asleep, Gaspard wrapped his robe around him and quietly left the bedroom, preparing himself for any surprise that lay in wait in the unnaturally still estate.

The dawn sun lit the house in warm tones of pink and orange and threw bright rainbows on the walls, spectrums cast by the numerous chandeliers hanging throughout its interior. Gaspard first checked the master's study, hoping to be greeted by a harsh reprimand and harrowing grimace behind a white mask for his uninvited invasion on the Phantom's privacy. He found the study empty and the ivory candles burnt almost to the stands of the gilded candelabras. A tingling down his spine urged Gaspard toward the hall of guest rooms, where the Vicomtess de Chagny had inexplicably been brought to reside only the previous day.

"Surely he cannot be _there_," Gaspard though, trying to dismiss the suspicion rising in his gut. Surrendering to his hunch, the servant nervously wrapped his robe tighter about his person and hurriedly made his way to the bedroom where he secretly suspected he would find his fearsome master.

Quietly passing Docteur D'Aubigne inelegantly sprawled out on a chair in the hall, Gaspard took a deep breath and walked towards the guest bedroom he knew housed the young lady. He paused at the door, listening for any indicative (and improbably inappropriate) sounds from within and was thankful to detect none. Pressing lightly at the gold handle, Gaspard eased the door open and timidly peered within, preparing himself for all manner of unpleasant surprise.

He was evidently unprepared for what he found on the other side of the bedroom door. The Vicomtess de Chagny was much as he had left her the night before – still confined to the bed by her illness (although no longer hysterically thrashing). Instead of throwing herself about the crimson sheets in feverish panic, she was sleeping soundly, porcelain face startlingly peaceful in contrast to the fear-twisted countenance he had witnessed the night before. But something else in the room was conspicuously out of place. The Phantom lay across the bedside, knees on the ground but powerful torso and head on the crimson sheets beside Christine. His bare hand was entwined with that of the Vicomtess and was resting against her chest as she slept; his devastating eyes were closed beneath the sinister white mask. The two slept with fingers locked as one, palms welded together as if they had been forged that way by the god Hephaestus.

Gaspard stood in the doorway, mouth agape as he tried desperately to decide on the proper course of action. "Beauty and the beast," he thought, surprised to realize that the two almost looked… beautiful as they were. He brusquely shook off his shock and advanced on the bed, deciding that some (even if inadvisable) course of action was better than none at all.

"Monsieur Claudin," he whispered, laying a timid hand on the Phantom's broad shoulder. The masked man's intensely blue eyes snapped open and he violently pushed his body away from the bedside, immediately severing his contact with the Vicomtess. Gaspard almost fell backwards in his fright as the master instantly leapt to his feet and fixed his servant with a searing glare that he mused would probably melt stone. Gaspard retreated, stuttering as he tried to offer some - any explanation in the face of the demon before him.

After a tense moment, the Vicomtess unexpectedly stirred in the bed and the Phantom snapped from his enraged pursuit, masked face wiped clean of all sign of the explosive fury that had been there only seconds before. He hurried to her bedside, blue eyes free of anger and wide with concern. Gaspard was stunned; who was this _man_ before him? The fearsome Phantom had instantly transformed; a profoundly _human_ concern colored his face and Gaspard found he could almost imagine that he was any other man. Satisfied that Christine was only tossing in her sleep, Erik slowly turned from the bed, skillfully wiping his face of all emotion before meeting his servant's dubious gaze. Cringing impulsively as he witnessed the change in Erik's countenance, Gaspard struggled to stand his ground and prepared himself for a verbal beating the likes of which he had never known.

"You are up early, Gaspard," the Phantom said coldly, deep voice disturbingly monotone. Gaspard stared at his usually volatile master, baffled by the inexplicable changes in his moods. During his employment at the Mason de Chagny, he and Seraphine had come to expect two things from their master: coldness or cruelty. And yet Gaspard could not deny that only moments ago he had seen the monster's face alight with human anxiety – a masked face free of all the chilling malice he had come to know and dread from the Phantom.

"Oui, Monsieur. The sun…" he stammered, unable to smooth the shaky plea on his leaden tongue.

"Oui, the sun." Erik nodded tersely to the dubious servant and without engaging in any further conversation, walked silently from the bedroom. Gaspard paused a moment before hurrying after his master and catching him in the dimly lit hall. The bedroom door slammed behind them, leaving them alone in the unrelenting darkness of the hallway.

"Monsieur Claudin, I-," Gaspard forced out, usually rough voice high with apprehension.

"What is it, Gaspard?" the Phantom said, not turning to face his agitated employee. Gaspard stared at his master's back, swathed in an immaculate black cape and debated the possible ramifications of asking a single question, any single question. Bracing himself for the possibly violent backlash of this intrusion, Gaspard forced himself to speak clearly, without any trace of the fear that poisoned his gut.

"Monsieur, pardon me, but who is 'Erik'?"

The Phantom went completely still and Gaspard saw his broad shoulders tense beneath his sweeping black cape. He was suddenly bitterly aware of the silence in the dimly candlelit hall; it was as if all air had been swept from the lungs of the world and left the earth completely without sound. A tingling shudder ran up Gaspard's spine as he stared at the Phantom's back, nervously awaiting an ultimatum.

"Why do you ask?" the Phantom hissed softly, barely disrupting the tense silence of the air with the venomous twist of his deep voice.

"The Vicomtess – she was, well, she was calling for him," Gaspard mumbled, already preparing to beg for forgiveness for his flagrant intrusion on his master's fiercely maintained privacy. To Gaspard's surprise, the Phantom said nothing; he only turned to look at his servant, vibrant eyes cold and half-obscured face expressionless. There was a torturous pause and as the Phantom stared him down from behind the sinister white mask, Gaspard felt the weight of the vibrating tension in the small space mount indefinitely. Beads of salty sweat began to run down his face like mournful tears as Gaspard cowered under his master's searing gaze.

"I've no idea, Gaspard. I do not know," the Phantom said beneath his breath, breaking the silence and swiftly dismissing his servant's question with a brusque, one handed gesture. He turned away and walked briskly down the hall past the unfinished staircase to disappear within his private quarters. He never looked back.

It was only when the Phantom had disappeared from sight that Gaspard realized that the elegant hand of his master had been shaking like the last clinging leaf in the chilling fall breeze.

* * *

As soon as the heavy bedroom door slammed shut behind him, Erik slid down its smooth surface, crumpling to the cold hardwood floor of his dimly lit sanctuary.

_Who is Erik? The Vicomtess – she was calling for him…_

Erik covered his face with his hands, trying desperately to resist the words, to deny his foolish heart the dangerous hope that those few words would instill within his chest. Gaspard's stammering voice echoed within the Phantom's feverish mind, begging him not to banish the seeds of reckless faith from his callous heart.

_She was calling for him…Erik…_

_ "_She was calling for… me," he thought helplessly, unable to still the hysterical workings of his mind. Erik ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of the mask, fierce loathing stirring in his conscious as he navigated its familiar curves. Suddenly seized by a strong and inexplicable desire for cursed exposure, Erik tore the leather mask from his disfigured face and violently threw it to the floor before him. Now he explored the ridges and valleys of his horrifically twisted visage with both hands, impulsively cringing as he felt underneath his shaking touch the hideousness that had marred all of his pathetic being. "For me?" he asked the silent bedroom, raggedly breathing the words into the glow of candlelight. Dropping his shaking hands from his ravaged face, Erik slowly rose to his feet and made his way across the chamber, suddenly full of horrible but irrefutable intent.

Closing his eyes to protect himself from what he might see, Erik blindly ripped the velvet curtains away from his loathed mirror and let them fall to the floor. He stood stiffly before his own repulsive reflection deathly afraid to open his eyes and find the hideous face he knew would stare back at him.

_Who is Erik?_

The Phantom finally forced open his bright eyes and stared blankly at his blanched and distorted visage in the unforgiving mirror, any dim glimmer of hope draining from his heart like crimson blood from an old wound torn anew. A twisted monster gazed steadily back at him, the creature's face marred beyond belief by an unimaginably cruel God – a God that Erik knew had abandoned him long ago, should any God truly exist at all. He sincerely doubted it. Erik quietly sung a familiar song to the horrifying face in the mirror, watching numbly as his lips formed the bitter words.

_Is this face the infection that poisons our love?_

_ This face that earned a mother's fear and loathing,_

_ A mask, my first, unfeeling scrap of clothing?_

_ Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate-_

_ An eternity of this before your eyes…_

The tears that began to well in the blue eyes of the monster in the mirror only intensified the repulsive nature of his twisted countenance. Erik felt the saline wetness of the tears running down the uneven ravines of his distorted cheek in salty rivers and turned from his own disturbing reflection, walking across the bedroom to lean down and pick up the white mask where it had fallen. As he slowly smoothed it over his ruined flesh and mournful tears, Erik could almost hear the sweet sound of his darling Angel reverberating in the silence of his lonely bedroom, her voice floating over the same devastating words that still haunted him in every moment, even now, years later.

_ This haunted face holds no horror for me now._

_ It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…

* * *

_

Seraphine jumped at the sound of the insistent rap at the front door and rushed from the kitchen to the grand entryway. Docteur D'Aubigne was due back any time now, hopefully baring medicine for the ailing Vicomtess, or good news, or even both. She threw open the heavy double doors and stopped dead, stunned silent (quite a feat for Seraphine, who had barely ever been silent in all her life). A woman she had never seen before stood on the step clothed meticulously in severe and unrelenting black, leather-gloved hand fiercely gripping a tall, dark cane at the ivory head. Her hair (brown with only a hint of telling gray) was pulled severely from her face into an immaculate dancer's bun. She considered Seraphine with cold gray eyes, impatiently waiting for the baffled housekeeper to welcome her inside. This rigid woman was most certainly not Docteur D'Aubigne, whose return she had been hopefully awaiting. Seraphine stared at the strange woman with a blank expression painting her face, absently forgetting the expected niceties in the face of such an unexpected guest.

"I am Madame Giry, an old friend of your master," Antoinette said with clearly emphasized annoyance. Seraphine gaped at her. The woman's blatant audacity was as amazing as her stark appearance.

"Of Monsieur Claudin? An old friend_?_" the maid repeated vaguely, finding the idea of her ominous master having any friend, and an old one at that, rather unbelievable.

"Oui. I find it hard to believe myself," Madame Giry said tersely (voice not betraying a wisp of humor) and inelegantly forced her way past a baffled Seraphine as she walked stiffly into the vast Mason de Claudin.

Erik bellowed as soon as he heard the insistent knock on the door to his bedroom.

"Did I not tell you that I was to be left in peace?" There was no reply and the Phantom returned to his composition, angrily shaking his head at the damned idiocy of his two servants. Another knock resounded through the chamber and Erik went completely still, irritable anger flooding his senses. He stormed from the desk and aggressively threw open the door, ready to loose his easy rage on any person he found on the other side.

"Bonjour, Erik." He stopped dead as he found himself staring into the cold gray eyes of Madame Giry. "Sulking?" She peered at him, eyes flickering with rigidly contained amusement. Grimacing beneath the unchanging face of the white mask, Erik made no move to welcome the former ballet mistress of the Opera Populaire. Instead, he immediately turned his back on Antoinette and stalked back to his seat at the desk. Unfazed by his apparent volatility and complete lack of warm welcome (as both were quite expected from Erik), Madame Giry followed him into the bedroom and indelicately closed the double doors with a bang.

"I love the décor," she said wryly, glancing around the cavernous lodgings with skepticism written all over her countenance. Erik slammed his gloved hands on the cluttered desk, momentarily silencing Madame Giry with his uncharacteristically quick outburst. It was unlike Erik to snap so quickly, for although he was volatile he valued his appearance of flawless control in the face of those few people he knew.

"What do you want, Giry?" he snarled, clenched fists resting where they had hit the desk.

"Pardon me, but I thought it my responsibility to make sure the Vicomtess de Chagny was in… capable hands," she said stiffly, ignoring Erik's escalating temper.

"I doubt you've forgotten, Madame, just how capable my hands can be," Erik hissed, face going momentarily predatory as he gazed down at his clenched fists. Madame Giry flinched despite herself, the image of Erik's gruesome lasso trick flashing through her mind. "How many men have fallen victim to that grim noose?" she wondered bitterly.

"How I wish I could forget, Monsieur Claudin," she said maliciously, eyes narrowing dangerously as she stared at her unlikely lifelong friend. Antoinette thought she saw a tense muscle twitch in the Phantom's exposed jaw, but that minute flinch was the only discernable response to her calculated venom that she could detect.

"I should hope that you may forget me as well," he said maliciously, face carefully controlled but voice betraying the depth of his pain upon hearing her bitter (and truly false) words. Madame Giry impulsively reached across the desk and grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"I could never forget you, my foolish friend," she whispered, subtly aging face quickly softening as well as her rigid demeanor. Erik held her gaze, his chilling blue gaze not cluing her in to whatever he might be feeling beneath the sinister façade of his unchanging mask. Antoinette released his chin from her strong grasp and tentatively stroked his bare cheek, fingers shaking as they met with his blanched visage. She felt Erik flinch from her trembling touch but she persisted, insisting upon this small semblance of comfort - this small gesture of reassurance. Erik felt the fiercely protected control begin to slip within him as she lavished on him such gentle contact and he violently wrenched himself from her hand, knocking over his desk chair as he jumped back as if he had been burnt. Madame Giry froze, staring at him with her hand still outstretched. "You cannot hide from me, Erik," she said faintly, slowly retracting her hand.

"I do not need your pity, Antoinette. Now go," he hissed, refusing to meet her imploring stare. "Go!" She smiled sadly at him, unfazed by his furious command.

"Take care of her," Antoinette said quietly, turning to leave the room but then pausing as if she were awaiting some affirmation. Erik took a step forward, hand outstretched to touch her shoulder, but after a moment of cynical consideration he limply dropped his hand to his side.

"I will," he replied as she relented and left the room. "I will."

* * *

Christine stared at the ceiling, senses reeling as she tried feverishly to orient herself upon waking. "Where am I?" she whispered to the flat plane above her. Panic flooding her, she attempted to sit up but immediately collapsed back upon the sheets, startled by the weakness she felt in her limbs. Wincing slightly, Christine resolved herself and pushed her frail body from the jungle of bedclothes and pillows that engulfed her and sat up, gasping for breath as her own illness again overwhelmed her. Once the unfamiliar bedroom had stopped spinning wildly around her, she slowly took in her surroundings, confusion filling her. The strange bedroom was lavishly decorated – a far cry from the modest quarters she had inhabited during her extended stay with the Giry family. In the strange bedroom she awoke to, the wallpaper was a lush forest of intense greens and the tapestries dripped with silver adornments. The décor was luxurious and yet painstakingly selected; Christine found that the tasteful opulence of the decoration was neither stifling nor overbearing, unlike that of the Mason de Chagny. Christine slowly sank back into the bed on her side, weakness momentarily overwhelming her intense sense of curiosity. The sheets she found herself swimming in were of a fine crimson silk – a vivid, bloody red.

Suddenly, Christine drew in a sharp breath of air, dark eyes going wide with disbelief. On the bedside table before her lay a single scarlet rose, a fine black ribbon tied around its thorny stem in a unmistakable bow.

"Erik," she gasped, instantly reaching out to grasp the rose. The barbed thorns pierced the tender skin of her palm, but Christine barely noticed. Clutching the crimson rose to the bosom of her worn cotton nightdress, she rose from the bed and stood unsteadily on the rich carpet. The world spun for a few, horrifying moments before it slowly stilled and came into focus. Ignoring the disturbing frailty of her ailing body, Christine made her way to the door of the bedroom and grasped the silver handle with unshakeable resolve. Only once she had leaned against the door with all of her rather unimpressive weight did it open, releasing her into the dim candlelight of a long hallway.

The hallway had a cavernous quality to it, but she found that she rather liked it. The deep burgundy carpet led her to a grand entrance hall, the marble floor dusty with construction. As she treaded softly through the entry room, she noticed a sweeping staircase stood at the side, unfinished, and above her head, a waterfall of crystals made up a graceful chandelier. The house was unnaturally silent, as if the estate had just drawn a deep breath and was now holding it, unwilling to free the air within its lungs. Fear surged through her weakened body for a moment and she paused to consider the heavy front doors. After a moment of deliberation, Christine cursed her girlish cowardice and ventured on.

Christine shivered slightly as she made her way into the dark hall at the other side of the entryway, overcome with a feeling of inexplicable unease. This hallway was as somber as the other and yet, mournful in a way the other was not, somehow. There was something sad about the darkness in this side of the vast estate – a loneliness she could not explain.

A faint light finally caught her eye in the relentless dark and Christine walked towards it, drawn to the weak glow from beneath a heavy set of walnut doors. She paused, tentatively leaning against the dark wood as she listened for any sound from within the room. Hearing none, she drew a deep breath and pressed against the golden handles to the doors until they slowly swung open before her.

Christine blinked as the candlelight threw light in her unaccustomed eyes, blurring all that lay before her. After a moment's hesitation the spacious chamber came into focus and Christine drew a sharp breath as her legs buckled beneath her and she crumpled to the cold hardwood floor.

She cringed as her ankle bent painfully beneath her weight but resisted crying out, afraid that any utterance would prompt the unbelievable scene before her to vanish into thin air. The bedchamber was hauntingly familiar; grand candelabras lit the cavernous space, throwing flickering lights upon the dark walls and tapestries. In one corner, a once-grand organ stood, the ivory keys coated in a light film of gray dust. A desk, cluttered with papers and worn leather bound books stood to the side, and at the other, a sweeping four poster bed dripping with red curtains so dark they were almost black. And on the edge of the bed, powerful arm thrown over the right side of his face, lay the Phantom of the Opera.

"Erik…" Christine whispered, unable to rise and unable to still her voice within her throat. In sleep, she noticed that he looked strangely vulnerable despite the power obvious in his muscular form, meticulously swathed in his familiar black garments and twisted in his sweeping cape. And beneath his arm, Christine was certain she would find the sinister stare of the white mask. As Christine stared at her Angel, entranced, her ankle sent jolts of pain up her leg and her head roared with a searing fever. "Erik, please wake," she pleaded, tears gathering in her eyes as she felt her last shreds of strength failing her.

_Angel of Music, _

_ My protector…_

_ Come to me, strange angel…_

Erik's blue eyes snapped open instantaneously. He sat up and glanced feverishly around the dimly lit bedroom, desperate to find the source of the hauntingly familiar voice. As his vivid gaze fell upon Christine he went still, eyes wide with disbelief behind the unflinching guise of the white mask. She smiled weakly, eyes glazing over with intense fever.

"Erik…" she breathed, finally succumbing to her own weakness and slumping to the floor.

"No!" Erik cried, leaping from the bed to race to her side, foolish arrogance and foolish doubt forgotten in an instant.


	13. A Chronic Disturbance

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Thirteen: A Chronic Disturbance**

Erik gracelessly dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor beside Christine's lifeless body, loathed face contorted with anxiety beneath the unflinching white leather of his mask. Without a moment's hesitation, he hurriedly gathered his Angel to him and cradled her limp body in his powerful arms. Her head rolled lifelessly to the side as he timidly slid a gloved hand beneath her slender neck to support her. The dark curls of her hair cascaded over his body in a suffocating velvet curtain and Erik struggled to control his emotions – to maintain composure in the face of duress.

"Christine," he whispered, voice high as he pleaded with her unconscious form. "Please, my love – please." He tried in vain to wake her, shaking her lightly as all blood drained from his countenance. She was breathing lightly and her alabaster skin was glowing with feverish perspiration. As he knelt on the floor holding the limp body of his Angel, Erik felt his fiercely protected farce crumbling around him. In the face of such beauty, he found that such foolishness could no longer live. Tears began to cloud his vision as he again whispered, "Please, Christine. ."

Finally, Christine stirred. Her dark eyelashes fluttered on bloodless cheeks and he felt her shift slightly in his arms. Erik froze as her chocolate eyes flew open and met his. She responded similarly under his gaze, going rigid in his arms for a moment before her lovely face relaxed and she quietly addressed him.

"Erik," she coughed, corners of her bloodless lips pulling into a heartbreaking smile. The Phantom found he was struck speechless; how could he respond when she smiled so fondly upon his undeserving face? "Angel," she whispered, leaning into his torso so that her head rested softly against his chest. She sought his warmth as a moth does the flame; she groped for contact with his trembling form as innocently as a child. He felt as if all breath had been ripped from his lungs in one fell swoop, yet again rendering him mute. Underneath her pale, silken cheek, his heart was beating violently – its pace feverish as treacherous hope infused his trembling body.

"My heart…" Erik breathed, voice husky as he stared down into her tired eyes and impossibly pale face. She did not flinch from him – did not pull away from his monstrous form with terror in her eyes. She looked at him as a young girl does the boy she secretly adores. "I am so sorry," he whispered to her, surrendering the last fortifications of his stubborn pride. "Forgive me, Christine. Don't leave me now – don't leave me." Christine stared steadily up at him, beautiful eyes glazed with fever as he began to cry. She could see his face twisting beneath the sinister white mask as the tears began to run down his pale skin and drip to her face like bitter saline rain.

"I will never leave you, Angel," she whispered. He let loose a hoarse sob that tore through his throat like shards of fine glass. His world was swirling; "What dream is this?" he thought, eyes locked with Christine's. "She is here, now, and she is not running. She does not recoil in fear. What dream is this?" Christine reached up with a shaking hand to weakly brush the clinging tears from Erik's bare cheek. He shuddered at her feather light touch and his breath caught in his throat. "Good God, do not let me wake to find this just a passing dream," he thought, blue eyes closing as she caressed his skin with trembling fingertips.

"I could never leave you," Christine said softly. Erik mused that in that moment he could have died. In that one moment he could have fallen gracefully from mortality into the familiar darkness of the underworld never regretting the twisted sham that had been his predominantly loveless life.

"Don't you know that I love you?" Christine whispered helplessly, tears beginning to blur her sight as she lay powerless in the strong arms of her Angel of Music. Erik woke up. Erik looked down on the waxen face of an ethereal beauty he had always sought but never had, his blue eyes wild as the words ripped through him. Three simple words. Three devastatingly simple words tore him from his waking dream. It took him only a second to react; Christine saw Erik's face go taught beneath her trembling fingers as soon as the words had left her lips and he stared down upon her without the warmth she had seen in his vividly hued eyes only moments ago - he coldly considered her face.

"What?" he asked, his voice low and impossibly cold. "What did you say?" Christine's eyes widened with fear and she desperately caressed his face, anxious for the warmth to again flood his gaze.

"I said that I love you," she said softly, watching in horror as he shuddered at the words. He stiffly drew away from her questing hand, unnaturally vivid eyes suddenly dark where they had been light. "I love you," she repeated desperately, feeling him retract beneath her body to leave her lying alone where she had fallen. He brusquely deposited her on the floor, movements rough as he pulled away from her body to stand over her. Christine stared up at his face in overwhelming dismay as the exposed half of his countenance became a mere reflection of the leather mask – cruel, menacing, and unfeeling.

"Do not speak such untruths. It is cruel, Christine, even for you," he stated bluntly, not looking down to meet her eyes. His usually rich voice was empty, lacking the passionate emotion that had always made his beautiful and horrible words that much more. She felt her blood freeze at the accusation, the monotone denial. Christine unsteadily rose from her position on the floor to stand weakly before him, dwarfed by his great and monstrous stature.

"It is the truth, Erik," she said quietly, trying to catch his eyes as he stared out into the darkness behind her where the warm candlelight did not reach the chilling shadows. Christine felt hot anger rising in her gut and she impulsively reached out to grasp his bare face and force him to meet her eyes. "The truth," she repeated, staring fearlessly into the shadowy depths of his intense gaze.

"You do not know what you say, _Vicomtess_," he hissed venomously, drawing infinitely closer to her face – so close that she could feel his breath upon her skin. His searing rage incensed her own fury and Christine tightened her grip on his person, roughly sliding her hand behind his head to pull him even closer to her visage.

"I do know what I say, foolish man, and what I do," Christine said fiercely, almost burying the last words of her sentence as she desperately forced his lips against her own. She could feel him resist as she pulled his face forward to meet hers but she applied all her fragile strength to the task at hand. Christine kissed him with a ferocity she had not known she possessed until this terrifying moment when she finally poured all of her fury into this rough, stolen contact.

Erik froze as she wrenched his lips down to meet hers and their flesh touched - their lips crushed together in an intoxicatingly torturous kiss. She felt the smooth leather of his mask beneath her hand as she stroked his face, pleading with him to forget all that neither of them could. He panicked beneath her insistent touch, refusing to engage in her fervor even as she moved her soft mouth ravenously against his. Christine caught his bottom lip between her teeth and he tasted warm blood on his tongue, the metallic tang mingling with the entrancing flavor of her silken lips. Erik found himself imprisoned by the tormenting contact; in his terror he was unable to pull away and yet unable to engage. He was trapped in the desperation of her soft lips against his, her teeth on his skin, her tongue flickering across his bottom lip. All air was stripped from his lungs but he did not struggle to draw a breath; he let himself drown in her violent embrace and the brutal ecstasy of her lips against his own.

After only a few intense moments of stolen nirvana, Christine released him from her grasp and pulled back, gasping for air as she stared at his bloodied lips in astonishment. He could see the crimson blood staining her swollen lips and wondered if it belonged to his body or to hers. She finally looked up to meet his gaze, her brown eyes dark and wide. Erik stared helplessly down upon her, stripped of his anger and his façade by the brief, heavenly contact she had forced upon him.

"Go," he whispered hoarsely, making no move to wipe the blood from his lips. Christine stared at his masked face, noticing that in this tense moment his usually terrifying gaze was more like that of an agonized child's. His blue eyes, so vivid they were almost alien in their hue, pleaded with her for a thousand things she found she could not name.

"Erik, I – forgive me," she choked out, petrified by the intense fear she saw in the Phantom's eyes.

"GO," he cried, voice ragged as he found himself torn between the urge to conceal himself and the desperate desire to pull her to him and vanquish the lingering ghosts of their shared betrayals. "_Go_."

The vast depth of pleading audible in his haunting voice frightened Christine to her core and she felt herself weaken, all energy spent in a few fleeting moments of passion. Christine was suddenly aware of the dull pounding in her head, the warmth that seemed to burn throughout her body, and the shakiness of her usually perfect vision. In pleasure she had forgotten her body's pain, but now that it was over her pain returned to her fully and quickly threatened to overwhelm her. She slowly turned to leave the room, unsteady but too shocked by Erik's pleading voice to stay any longer.

Erik watched as Christine turned from him and slowly made her way towards the door, each step more tentative than the one preceding it. The candlelight made her white cotton nightgown glow and for a chilling pause Erik almost believed he was witnessing the passing of a spirit – not a girl at all. She stopped dead several feet from the door and he watched her warily, waiting for her next move.

Christine slowly turned to face him and Erik felt his breath catch in his throat. Fever clouded her eyes and stole the blood from her skin; she looked on the verge of another collapse. His heart screamed for him to walk forward, to again cradle her in his arms and protect her from the fever that had invaded her frail body. But he stood his ground, immobilized by the bitter fear that had for so long both imprisoned and protected him. Love had only wounded Erik in his piteous lifetime and his own debilitating desire for that which would only wound his already bruised and broken heart terrified him. The woman before him was the living manifestation of both what would wound and love him; to go to her would be mental suicide. Christine swayed slightly, dark eyes unfocused and hands limply twisted in the gossamer fabric of her gown. Erik was struck by how like a wounded bird she looked, her wings broken and death imminent.

"Forgive me, my Angel," she whispered as silent darkness engulfed her and she fell to the floor with a dull, resounding thud that shattered Erik's already-broken heart too jagged shards inside his chest.

* * *

Gaspard woke with a start. Seraphine slept soundly beside him, arm thrown over her face and legs twisted in their sheets. Gaspard hesitated for only a moment before shaking her lightly with one hand, whispering, "Seraphine. Seraphine? Wake up." She moaned in displeasure, slapping away his hand with her own and rolling away from the source of her torment. He persisted, reaching out further to again nudge her with his hand. This time Seraphine thrashed out, whacking him in the head with an open hand and snorting unapologetically before resuming her defensive position on the other side of the bed.

He smiled and rubbed his head, momentarily losing interest in whatever spirit or apparition had woken him in the depth of night. Suddenly, a eerie chill ran down his spine and his curiosity weakly rejuvenated, Gaspard extricated himself from the vast tangle of sheets and made his way to the bedroom door.

In the dark hallway he listened carefully for any sound of disturbance from within the bedroom of the Victomess and hearing none hurried to the other wing of the house, unhappily suspicious that he knew the source of his mental unease in the night. The master had been known to occasionally drown his apparently tormenting sorrows in liquor and then tear about his room in a drunken frenzy – a violent drunken frenzy that Gaspard had no desire to contend with yet again. As he approached the grand doors to the master's bedroom the apprehensive feeling in his gut intensified tenfold and the servant sighed bitterly, not looking forward to whatever he was going to find within the room before him. Bracing himself for the storm to come, Gaspard stepped forward and pushed open the door.

Behind the bedroom door, Gaspard found something he had never expected. Lying limp on the hardwood floor of the master's somber residence was the Vicomtess de Chagny . She appeared unnaturally still, her bare limbs outstretched and twisted beneath her and mahogany curls spread about her like a tangle of dark seaweed. The cotton nightgown she had arrived in was wrapped around her like the dressings of a mummified corpse. Gaspard peered into the shadowy corners of the bedroom, preparing to meet eyes with his fearsome master. To his confusion, Gaspard's search yielded no Phantom – the vast bedroom was empty of all persons but for the Vicomtess and himself.

Free from the crippling gaze of master, Gaspard raced into the room and dropped to his knees before the lifeless body of the Vicomtess de Chagny. She was deathly pale and her eyes were closed; Gaspard crossed himself immediately, sure she had already departed the world of the living. But despite Christine's corpse-like pallor, Gaspard felt her light breath on his hand as he vainly searched for some confirmation of her death. He sat back on his heels and ran a shaking hand over his sweating brow, struck dumb by the inexplicable scene that had revealed itself to him.

"Seraphine," he yelled, staring helplessly at the Vicomtess as she remained limp on the floor. "SERAPHINE."

Indignant footsteps soon announced her approach and Gaspard sighed with relief, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from the Victomess's closed eyes. "Hold on," he whispered, turning to address his wife as he heard the door fly open behind him.

* * *

_ We never said our love was evergreen,_

_ Or as unchanging as the sea._

_ But if you can still remember_

_ Stop and think of me._

"There is no one there. She is not there," Erik told himself in the pitch dark, whispering beneath his ragged breath as he clutched trembling hands to his wretched face in despair. "You are alone."

_ Think of all the things we've shared and seen,_

_ Don't think about the way things might have been…_

He could feel the jagged wreckage of what was once his ominous home beneath his limbs as he sat on the stone floor of the unlit cave. Her voice was all he could hear; the sound was deafening, despite the absolute and unblemished silence of his dreary surroundings. Christine haunted him, more a true phantom than he had ever been. As the Phantom of the Opera he had wrought true terror; he had brutally murdered his fellow man without a glimmer of saving remorse. But Christine was destroying him completely – body and soul – and leaving the Opera Populaire could not save him. Leaving Paris could not save him. Leaving France could not save him.

_ Think of me, think of me waking,_

_ Silent and resigned._

_ Imagine me trying too hard,_

_ To put you from my mind._

"Silence," he pleaded, "please." The darkness paid no heed to his plea; in the depths of his tortured mind her melodious voice resonated like the clinging echo of the great cathedral bell. He saw her in his mind; she lay tangled in her gown on the floor of his bedroom, just as he had left her. He had left her. Erik grimaced as relentless waves of suffocating shame crashed over his head. "Coward," he thought. "I am a coward."

_ Recall those days,_

_ Look back on all those times,_

_ Think of the things we'll never do._

_ There will never be a day when I don't think of you…_

"NO. No more. I cannot hear any more." His voice cracked as he begged for the preservation of his last dismal shreds of sanity, if he truly possessed any. He could taste her blood on his lips. Or was the blood his own? Had she meant to destroy him, deceive him? Had she meant to light the raging fires within him that had finally begun to subside in the long years of silence between them?

_ I love you._

"Even an angel will never love that which cannot be loved. It is impossible," Erik whispered, running a trembling hand over the smooth leather surface of the unfeeling scrap of clothing that had for so long obscured and enslaved that which made him less than a man in the eyes of a cruel world. A face – only a face.

_ Pity comes too late._

_ Turn around and face your fate:_

_ An eternity of this__before your eyes…_

A face wet with tears.

* * *

"A month, Gaspard! Non, more than a month,_" _Seraphine spat, throwing the dirty dishes into the sink with a clatter and splash. Her husband ignored the boisterous display of frustration and continued perusing the newspaper. Seraphine fixed the back of his head with a searing glare before returning her attention to the sink and plunging her hands into the suds, muttering obscenities under her breath. Gaspard took a deep sip of café au lait, completely serene in the face of his wife's familiar volatility.

Finally, Seraphine snapped and turned on her husband again, hands dripping and eyes wide with derision. "He isn't coming back, Gaspard. He isn't!"

"He hasn't seen the main staircase finished. He'll come back," her husband replied, still paging through the newspaper with an amused glint in his dark eyes. He paused to wipe the black newsprint from his fingers with a bit of well-placed spit. Seraphine let out a loud noise of exasperation similar to a bark and stormed from the kitchen, leaving the sink full of suds and half-washed dishes. Gaspard smiled slightly as he heard her stomping footsteps down the hall and sighed, rising from his seat at the table and folding the newspaper. He turned and dutifully plunged his hands into the sink and began to complete his wife's abandoned task.

"Let me do that, Gaspard." He smiled, knowing whom the sweet voice belonged to (for it did certainly not belong to the spiteful Seraphine he knew and loved).

"Should you not be in bed, Victomess?" he said genially, throwing a scolding glance over his shoulder. Christine smiled mischievously at him and in one swift movement deftly commandeered Gaspard's position at the sink. The aging servant sighed in false displeasure and happily sank into a chair at the table to contentedly watch the noble Vicomtess do his (or his wife's) irritating chores for him. Gaspard was struck by the transformation in the girl over the last few weeks; under the strict care of Docteur D'Aubigne and his wife, she had finally emerged from the shroud of bitter illness – a glorious butterfly breaking free from a suffocating chrysalis. The fierce Phantom remained missing and Gaspard decided to take over the role as master, if only in the smallest respects. He cordially invited the Vicomtess de Chagny to remain in the Mason de Claudin at her pleasure and had been rather delighted when she unexpectedly accepted the offer. Why she was not living with the Vicomte he did not know, but Gaspard found he really did not care. Christine was a piercing beam of light; her beautiful presence filled the somber estate with a warmth the Phantom had surely never inspired.

And yet, a sad shadow clung in the depths of her eyes and Gaspard often thought that from the corner of his sharp eye he saw Christine brusquely wipe away what could only be tears when she thought no one was there to see. When she was not stealing Gaspard's despised chores, the Vicomtess could be found at her bedroom window, staring out onto the street with something resembling longing coloring her already dark eyes darker still. Gaspard had long since guessed some of what was at the deep root of his houseguest's suffering, but tactfully refrained from broaching the subject with her. He was not one to pry, unlike his thankfully oblivious wife.

Washing the clinging suds from the last dish, Christine turned to find Gaspard gazing blankly at her, warm brown eyes unfocused and thoughts obviously elsewhere. When she met his gaze he immediately snapped from his dazed state and blinked, smiling weakly at her.

"Thank you, Victomess," he said quietly, running a hand through his thinning hair.

"How many times must I tell you to call me Christine?" she chided gently, drying the dish with a spare rag. He smiled begrudgingly and stood to bow before her, the gesture overblown and ridiculous.

"Thank you, Christine," Gaspard stated grandly, eyes twinkling at her as she grinned at his display. She often found herself wondering how such a light-hearted man could end up in the service of such a brooding master. But more often, she wondered where that certain brooding master could be.

Gaspard saw a shadow flicker across Christine's lovely face and he sighed, taking the dry dish from her hands and placing it in its rightful stack of flatware.

"He is not coming back, is he Gaspard?" she said suddenly, voice hollow and carefully expressionless. Gaspard turned from the cabinets to look at her in surprise. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he delivered to her a few carefully chosen words, all of which he hoped would lighten the heaviness he could see in her young face.

"Madame, I do not know. However, he has not seen his grand staircase finished and it is quite unlike Monsieur Claudin to leave great beauty unseen."

* * *

_To the Vicomtess de Chagny,_

_ Madame, it is with great regret that I must impart to you ill news of your husband, le Vicomte de Chagny. The Vicomte has unfortunately fallen under the shadow of a grave and terminal illness and his strength is quickly failing him. What the illness is exactly I can only guess at; with the limited information I have been able to glean during my time with your husband, I would say it is most likely a sickness of the blood. I write to you now at the Vicomte's request – although he is too weak now to write to you himself he thought it necessary to send news of his condition to you and request that you come to the Mason de Chagny, at your convenience. I am sorry to be the barer of such somber news and I can only wish that you yourself are well. I beg you, Madame – do pay a visit, even a short one. He only asks for you._

_ Sincèrement, Docteur Theillier _

Madame Giry stared at the sealed letter in her hands, weighing it and marveling at how so light a thing could carry with it such heavy tidings. It was with great solemnity that she finally reached out to firmly knock on the door to the Mason de Claudin.

It was only a few moments before the door flew open and Madame Giry found herself looking into the familiar face of Seraphine. "Bonjour. I am here to see the Vicomtess," she said, trying to keep her face free of all telling emotion. Seraphine glanced at the letter clutched tightly in the woman's white-knuckled fist and nodded, opening the door further to allow her entrance.

"This way, Madame Giry," she said quietly, leading her through the strangely dark halls of Erik's manor. "Leave it to Erik to create night even in the day," Antoinette thought wryly, glancing at the beautiful and yet unquestionably somber décor with a steely glint in her gray eyes. At the end of the hall Seraphine gestured to a heavy wooden door and turned on her heel, leaving the strict ballet mistress to her own devices. Madame Giry waited until the maid had disappeared into the darkness before tentatively reaching out to rap lightly on the bedroom door.

Almost instantly, the door was thrown open and Antoinette found herself face to face with her former pupil and ward. Christine's large eyes were wide with expectation and her face was a pale alabaster palette; it was obvious to Madame Giry that this was the face of a young woman standing on the edge of a gaping abyss, silently waiting for the ground to finally crumble beneath her. When Christine saw not the fierce Phantom of her dreams behind the door, but the rigid dance mistress of her past her ashen face fell slightly and the flame dancing in her eyes faded to a dull glow.

"Bonjour, Vicomtess," Madame Giry said at last, relief washing over her as she saw that Christine was much her former self – illness no longer clung, skeletal, to her delicate features even if a shadow lingered in her warm gaze.

"An unexpected pleasure, Madame Giry," Christine said genially and if her smile was a little forced and voice a little hollow, Antoinette tried not to notice. The letter felt like lead in her hand and she felt some of the blood drain from her face as she looked into the lovely visage of her former pupil. The pause was conspicuous and Christine silently noted the paling in Madame Giry's aged countenance. "What is it?" she whispered, mind filling with dire possibilities. "Erik? Dead?" her mind and heart cried, even as she tried to suppress the violent emotions that threatened to flood her features.

"Not a pleasure, I'm afraid," Madame Giry said softly, watching the blood vanish from Christine's cheeks as it had from her own only moments before. "Vicomtess, I bring a letter." With this statement she reached out with a slightly shaking hand to deposit the parchment into Christine's grasp. All composure forgotten, the Vicomtess unceremoniously ripped open the familiar Chagny seal and spread the letter before her eyes with trembling fingers. And then a heavy silence flooded the room, the tension weighing down on Antoinette's shoulders like sacks of grain. She blankly watched Christine read the letter with increasing unease, for she found she did not know what reaction to expect.

"It's Raoul… he's ill," the girl finally said, voice broken with threatening tears. "He's dying, Madame Giry." She stared at her former mistress with liquid eyes full of dull suffering – the chronically wounded look of one whose mortal pain has never ceased.

"I know, Christine. I know," Antoinette whispered, enclosing the girl in her arms as tears finally broke on the surface and the Vicomtess de Chagny dissolved into wracking sobs.


	14. Lumière Froide

**Resonance by sheshakes**

**Chapter Fourteen: ****Lumière Froide**

The Vicomte de Chagny moaned as the unexpected sensation of a cool hand stroking his cheek found its way through the feverish blur of his battered senses.

"Shh, Raoul. Shh…" The voice was sweet and familiar and for a moment Raoul's heart leapt forward in his chest, the aching organ suddenly alive with pleading hope. He slowly eased open his tired eyes and a sob rose in his throat, unstoppable and rough with overwhelming gratitude.

"Christine," he breathed hoarsely, the word more of a whimper than a name. "You came." She hovered in his blurring vision like an angel and for a terrifying moment he almost believed her a delusion – a hallucination of a feverish and longing psyche. Or worse, evidence of his own death. But she gently stroked his burning cheek, her feather-light touch was a life raft in a sea of searing agony, and he knew that her presence wasn't a torturous fantasy or a somber sign of his fate. And stinging tears began to roll down his face.

"Of course I came," Christine said softly, leaning over his tortured body to plant a gentle kiss on his heated brow.

"I am dying, my darling," Raoul choked, voice broken with saline tears. Christine felt a rebuttal rise in her throat – a desperate denial to what she already knew to be undeniably true. But as Christine stared into his paling eyes she knew she could not lie to him now, could not ease his suffering with false dreams. He knew his mortality beyond any shred of doubt and a weak denial of his fate would seem foolish and cruel to his ears.

"Oui, my old friend. Oui." Her sad confirmation of what he knew in his heart to be irrefutable was unexpectedly soothing and he felt an unnerving serenity flood his failing body, foreign but welcome. As Raoul stared up into the ashen face of the woman he had loved all his life and would love for all that was left of that life, he began to sing. His voice was cracked and hoarse - barely a whisper - but the words were undeniably real and Christine felt tears begin to roll down her cheeks, the familiar riverbeds of her weeping filling once again with saline streams of mourning.

_ Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_ Let me lead you from your solitude_

_ Say you'll need me with you here beside you._

_ Anywhere you go let me go too._

_ Christine, that's all I ask of you._

Raoul smiled through his pain and she smiled through her tears, grasping his trembling hand with her own while softly stroking his burning face with the other. She whispered the words of the sweet song that had once united them, filled them with warmth in the midst of stifling darkness.

_ Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_ Say the word and I will follow you._

_ Share each day with me, each night, each morning._

_ Say you'll love me…_

_ Love me, that's all I ask of you._

Christine could see the light beginning to fade in his pale blue eyes and she clung to his hand, pleading that he stay with her. Raoul smiled sadly and reached up with violently shaking fingers to barely caress her snow-white cheek. "I love you, Little Lotte," he breathed, feeling the wetness of her tears beneath his chilling fingertips. She let loose a rough sob and leaned forward to plant a begging kiss on his bloodless lips. He kissed her softly and when she pulled back to look down at him with dark, swimming eyes, he could feel the last of his strength flying from his body, winging away like a caged bird liberated at last. "It was enough, Little Lotte, that you loved me at all, even if you did not love me best," he whispered as the dim light in his eyes was finally extinguished and his hand dropped from her tear-stained face.

"I loved you, Raoul," Christine cried desperately and as Raoul finally felt darkness consume him her words rang in his mind – a hauntingly beautiful resonance in the abyss of silence he was quickly falling into. She watched helplessly as his hands fell limp at his sides and his eyes slowly closed, the pale blue of his loving gaze finally conceding to the pitch black of uninterrupted sleep. His blanched cheek went slack beneath her trembling hand and a sharp sob she could neither suppress or swallow tore from her throat, shattering the crystalline silence in the dimly candlelit room with a ragged cry of loss.

* * *

The organ gave birth to dark storm clouds of gray dust as Seraphine ran her feather duster lazily over the ivory, scarcely touching the smooth surface of the black and white keys. Her mind wandered; when she was just a child, her dear grandmother had first explained to her the origin of dust. As fairies died, their bodies became the gray film that clung so desperately to every surface of her Grandmother's tiny home in the country. Seraphine had found the story both horrific and fascinating; she had never looked at dusting the same way again. As the gray lifted from the keys into puffs of brooding cumulus nimbus, she almost believed she could see the fairy wings swirling in the air before her eyes. Then, through a spinning cloud of dust she saw something she did not expect – an apparition.

Seraphine screamed, the sound desperate and primal. A gloved hand flew over her mouth, effectively stifling her terrified cry.

"Really, Seraphine. I would never have guessed you had in your possession such a powerful voice." The voice was a deep baritone infused with mocking and Seraphine, instantly realizing exactly whom the chilling tone belonged to, found herself torn between relief and even more intense shades of terror. The strong, leather-gloved hand released her and she gasped in a breath of cool air, trying desperately to slow the feverish beating of her heart.

"Monsieur Claudin – you've returned," she choked, turning to find herself caught in the cold blue gaze of her masked master.

"Very perceptive, Madame," he said dryly, fierce eyes narrowing with cruelty beneath his white façade. The blatant condescension in his voice pricked Seraphine's famously volatile pride and the fear fled her body to be instantly replaced with rising anger.

"So glad to have you back, Monsieur," she hissed, cherishing the barely contained anger that flashed in her master's cool gaze as the malicious ridicule left her mouth. Her eyes lingered on the smooth surface of his mask, dark eyes prying at his fiercely protected visage like cruel fingers. He retreated a step, half expecting the angry woman to reach out and rip the mask from his face. Encouraged by the look of apprehension that flitted through her master's gaze, Seraphine advanced. "What is it that you hide beneath that white leather?" she wondered and he saw the question in her eyes. Full of thoughtless fury, Seraphine whipped forth with a questing hand to snatch the clinging mask from her master's alabaster face, to strip him of his pride and belittle the sinister Phantom as he had her.

In less time than it would take her to draw a breath, Seraphine found herself forcibly held to the floor, face inches from the expensive rug and a crushing hand buried in her meticulously arranged hair. The owner of the impossibly powerful grasp that held her was trembling violently and she could hear his ragged breath just inches from her ear.

"Madame, I would not attempt such a thing if I were you," the Phantom growled, his usually smooth voice rough with violent rage, and Seraphine felt a tingling shudder run down her spine, lightning fast and agonizingly intense. "Those who have in past have not lived to share what they have seen." Seraphine's heart jolted in her chest and she was flooded with the chilling sensation of one who is drowning.

"Oui, Monsieur Claudin. Pardon me," she stammered, barely able to find the air in her lungs and speak. Only then did he release her from his crushing grasp. When Seraphine finally managed to stand, she did so unsteadily and found her world spinning. The Phantom was sitting across the room in a sweeping chair upholstered in an severe shade of dark burgundy, the deep color bordering on black. "Please, Monsieur Claudin. Forgive me." All her pride had vanished in wake of her terror and Seraphine found herself begging forgiveness from the man who only seconds before had incurred her wrath with his cruel indifference to her easily bruised ego. He regarded her coldly, as a black-swathed judge does the sadistic murderer begging for his life in the face of rightful verdict. After an agonizing moment of silence, he finally spoke in a tone of light inquiry, his inexplicable change in moods startling Seraphine to the core.

"Where is the Vicomtess?" He looked at her expectantly, as if she were to simply produce the Victomess de Chagny from an impossibly deep apron pocket. Seraphine stared at him from across the dimly lit room with her fingers wrapped white knuckled around the feather duster's ivory handle and face again draining of all blood.

"She – she has left, Monsieur," she forced out, dark eyes wide with panic.

"What?" he hissed. Seraphine found herself once again trembling before him, all instincts urging her to fly from the room in blind terror. The Phantom held her with his imprisoning blue gaze and she knew there was no conceivable escape from the rage she was fated to provoke in him.

"She has returned to le Mason de Chagny, Monsieur. Yesterday," Seraphine said numbly, her voice hollow as she watched the words crash over him and the impossibly white hue of his skin pale indefinitely. She thought she could almost see the waves of fury emanating from his broad shoulders and powerful arms, as if rage were a beast about to burst forth from him. His immobilizing eyes closed behind the white mask, releasing her, but Seraphine found she could still not move.

"Seraphine, get out. Now," he whispered, eyes still closed behind the unflinching surface of his mask. His hands trembled on the armrests of the chair as he clenched the dark fabric of the upholstery in his gloved fists. She stood statue-still, as if he were Medusa and she was the unfortunate creature permanently locked by her crippling gaze. His eyes snapped open and she almost cried out at the alien brightness of his searing gaze. "GO NOW!"he bellowed and Seraphine tore from the room - from the darkness deep as hell that she could hear so clearly within his desperate roar.

* * *

The ornate mausoleum towered before her as the fall breeze tore through the dark locks of her hair. Christine could smell the dry leaves and the whispered murmurs of winter on the gusting wind and she drew the light black shawl tighter about her narrow shoulders. The grating voice of the priest floated above her head, the words meant to soothe her meaningless as she watched her husband and friend sealed into the somber stone tomb of his forbearers beside his recently deceased parents.

_Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?_

Christine stared down at her hands as they clung to one another, the slender digits elegantly swathed in black lace gloves. Her head swam with questions… and painful memories she would rather forget. "I loved you to the last, my friend," she thought silently, familiar tears blurring her vision as she gazed blankly at her tightly clasped hands. When she finally looked up, she saw that the priest had finally finished his soothing sermon and the black-clothed mourners were quickly scattering across the face of the meandering cemetery like dark crows taking to the insistent wind. Attentive angels soared above her bowed head, staring down at her with blank, stone eyes. Christine took a step forward and leaned down to impulsively pluck a single white rose from the extravagant bouquet lying at the foot of the Chagny tomb. She felt the barbed thorns of the rose threatening to pierce the tender flesh of her fingers but ignored the menace of injury to instead grasp the stem tighter within her lace gloved hands.

Dry and crumpled foliage tumbled across her path as she slowly made her way to the corner of the vast cemetery where she knew she would find the silent grave of her deceased father, Charles Daaé. As she walked, echoes of the past rang in her ears like the delicate song of wind chimes in a spring breeze. Although she was now making her way through a world of silence and death, memories filled the heavy air with songs and cries too resonant to be real but too real to be false. And finally her father's mausoleum loomed over her, the lantern at the entrance unlit and dark, as it should be. But in Christine's eyes she saw a dancing flame flickering in that lantern, beckoning her forth, and for a moment she truly believed what she saw. The snow swirled around her and coated the wings of the stone angels hovering at the heights of her vision. She could feel the sharp thorns of the blood-red roses in her hands and smell the heady aroma of their heavy crimson blossoms. And then, a voice pierced the darkness of the cemetery and filled her eyes with painfully beautiful light – the flame of life in a world of death.

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_

_ Yearning for my guidance._

The deep baritone pulsed through Christine's body until every nerve and sense within her begged, pleaded for the hope that infused the disembodied voice of her master.

_ Angel of Father, friend or Phantom?_

_ Who is it there, staring?_

_ Angel, oh speak, what endless longings_

_ Echo in this whisper?_

Her voice soared through the dark wings of the angels and monuments of death like a liberated bird in flight. She longed for his answer, longed for his voice to fill her once again with dangerous, overwhelming hope.

_ Too long you've wandered in winter_

_ Far from my fathering gaze._

_ Wildly my mind beats against you,_

_ But my soul obeys._

_ Angel of Music I denied you,_

_ Turning from true beauty._

_ Angel of Music, do not shun me. _

_ Come to me strange Angel!_

Suddenly, Christine's eyes flew open. Even as her desperate heart still beat to the rhythm of his haunting song, she saw before her an empty cemetery scattered with dry leaves and a lantern, unlit, hanging at the entry to her father's mausoleum. The only sound in the air was the howl of an anxious fall wind, even as her ears rang with his voice – his heavenly, enchanting voice. She looked down at her hands to see bright blood under the black lace of her gloves for at last the sadistic thorns of the lone white rose had made good on their threat and pierced her tender palm. Kneeling before the looming mausoleum and its ever-vigilant angels, Christine gently placed the white rose below the dark lantern. Her dark gaze lingered on the thorns of its long stem for a moment, knowing that the blood staining the barbs belonged to her body. The dull ache behind her eyes told her that although she was crying, her body could no longer provide her with the mournful tears her heart pleaded for.

She impulsively reached out to caress the satin surface of a white rose-petal. Choking slightly on the sobs threatening to rise in her throat and overtake her, Christine whispered to the silent grave, "Come to me, strange Angel. Come."

* * *

The master's room was in shambles but perhaps it was only a reflection of his shattered heart. Gaspard was more than wary as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Phantom's private chambers (doors which now hung unevenly, the hinges and hardwood broken in the Phantom's wrath). Shards of glass cracked under the heels of his worn leather boots and he mused that what he was doing was akin to a mouse willingly leaping into a hungry cat's dinner plate. But what he found within the ruined room was unexpected indeed, while what he did not find was sorely predictable.

The master was gone. His undeniable absence did not surprise Gaspard in the least, for he knew Monsieur Claudin's moods better than he'd like to, and from what Seraphine had related to him of the night before, a disappearing act was in order on the Phantom's part. However, among the wreckage of the master's luxurious belongings he found something that he would have never expected – not in his most fanciful delusions. A note.

_Gaspard,_

_ I have departed for London. I expect you to keep the house (and that damned wife of yours) in order. In your left pocket you will find the key to my in-house vault. I trust you will employ what funds I have left for your use wisely. Be advised, I have no intention of returning to Paris anytime in the near future. A tragedy, no? _

_ Erik Claudin_

Gaspard stared at the slip of parchment in disbelief. He numbly searched his left pocket with his free hand and found within an oddly shaped brass key, just as Erik had promised. "Christ," he breathed, staring at the key as if he expected it to grow wings or a tail at any moment. Regaining his wits after a moment of stunned silence, Gaspard turned on his worn heel to run from the wrecked bedroom with brass key clasped in one fist and the inexplicable parchment in the other, shouting at the top of his voice for his wife.

* * *

"Your husband left you everything, Vicomtess. And I think that you'll find that everything is far greater than even you could expect," the finely suited gentleman said seriously, placing in Christine's pale hands the will. She scanned it briefly through the black lace veil drawn modestly over her features and found that "everything" did not surprise her in the least. However kind her husband had been, she could not deny the existence of the greed that he had cultivated with meticulous care even as their marriage fell to shambles. In Bretagne, as Christine faded away in a lonely seaside estate, the Vicomte de Chagny had made a veritable fortune (built on the considerable foundation of the family fortune he already possessed). Despite this, Christine found she no longer held any bitterness in her aching heart. What she had disliked of her husband in life died with him, leaving only the memories of his kindness and his love for her to recall as she quietly mourned her loss.

Suddenly, Christine froze. Her dark eyes were locked on a single line of her husband's flawlessly written cursive as she gazed down at the parchment sheet in her hands. Nestled in a list of her husband's vast holdings was something she had never expected to find. Something she had never even considered.

"Monsieur… is this correct? The Opera Populaire…" she said softly, eyes never moving from the clearly penned words before her.

"Ah, oui, Vicomtess. The Vicomte de Chagny purchased the building sometime after the famed disaster, against the advice of our staff. A personal interest, perhaps, although obviously not a monetarily advantageous one," he said airily, eyeing the silent woman with curiosity. "Perhaps you know what the appeal was, Madame?" She at last tore her eyes from the parchment to throw him a wide-eyed glance from beneath the dark gauze of her veil.

"Monsieur, I am as lost as you in this particular matter," she murmured, deftly folding the paper with shaking hands and tucking it within a pocket of her black handbag.

As she left the firm, questions flew haphazardly through her mind like a startled flock of pigeons. "A secret I never would have guessed at, my friend," she thought, making her way down the sweeping stone steps to the street. In the distance she could see the angel-studded roofline of the Opera Populaire looming over the other grand buildings of the Parisian skyline, the sunlight reflecting from the golden wings of the ethereal statues so that the Opera house glittered on the fading horizon like a mirage.

And for the first time in weeks, Christine smiled.

* * *

The flame danced gaily in the somber darkness of the underground room, filling it with warmth that had been long since absent. She tipped the lit candle to the wick of its ivory neighbor, lighting it. The two candles flickered atop the dusty candelabra and Christine found the sight strangely comfort. "Rest well, mon ami. Mon pere," she said softly, rising from the stone floor to brush the clinging dust from the front of her black mourning gown. Suddenly, a sound disrupted the silence of the room and Christine's heart leapt as she waited for the deep baritone of her master to erupt from the dark chasms like a waking apparition. A moment later when no such voice came, she was laughing quietly at her foolishness – the wanton nature of her naïve heart.

The sound came again but she knew its source; far above her head an army of hired workers and contractors slaved away, meticulously restoring the ruined Opera Populaire to its former glory. Only days after receiving control over Raoul's extensive personal accounts Christine had employed her status among les nouveaux riches, horrifying the various managers and clerks at the firm. "They call me a madwoman," she mused cheerfully, idly listening to the racket above her. But Christine viewed her extravagant venture as personal catharsis; restoring the battered Opera house seemed the only way to free herself of the persistent specters of her grisly past. She found she could not hear the faint echoes of fleeting apparitions so well over the roar of construction, and was grateful.

But then, the echo of that haunting voice once again forced itself into her hearing and Christine's breath caught in her throat. The sound was undeniably a voice – from deep below her in the dark chasms of the Opera Populaire. And the voice was no more a dream than the feather light caress of the black lace veil she wore upon her face. The room seemed to spin in a delirious frenzy and the twin candles blurred in her gaze. Desperate to block out the dreams of her longing mind, Christine tightly closed her eyes and gripped the black fabric of her full skirt in her trembling hands. "There is no one there," she murmured to herself, unwilling to allow false hope to once again overtake her being and upset her fragile sanity. But it was all in vain.

Her breath caught in her throat, the air suddenly seized captive as the tinkling song of a music box echoed through the room, the familiar sound rising from the maze-like bowels of the theatre like the clinking of a crystal chandelier in an idle breeze.

_Masquerade…_

_ Paper faces on parade._

_ Masquerade…_

_ Hide your face so the world will never find you._

A gusting wind tore through the tiny underground chamber and all at once both candles went black, instantly extinguished by the chilling subterranean zephyr. The music box went silent as the last word of the song echoed through the caverns and the ensuing hush was heavy, like the leaden silence was made of water and flesh - not simply frigid air. Christine was frozen in her stance even as her heart pounded within her chest, the tortured organ threatening to burst from her chest in its exuberance. Another breeze swept around her, tugging at the ebony fabric of her mourning dress and the delicate lace of her veil before whipping back into the darkness from whence it came.

Christine took a deep breath and momentarily relished the enlivening pain as her lungs suffered through an influx of air so cold that it felt like a barrage icy daggers in her already aching chest. She let the feeling surge through her body before finally opening her eyes to the impenetrable darkness of the tiny room. "I'm coming, Angel," she whispered, entranced as she took a determined step forward into the never-ending night.

The lake was impossibly dark. "And cold," Christine muttered beneath her breath, wincing as the frigid water flooded her ankles and began to soak the fabric of her sweeping black skirts.

Christine was almost at the gate when a insistent fear began to press on her eager heart. "What am I doing?" she whispered, the sound of her voice ringing eerily in the damp caverns. "Following the mere dream of a voice into a watery grave?" She could no longer hear the reassuring bangs of the construction far above her head, nor the clatter of the workers' heavy footfalls. For as well as dark and cold the lake was unnaturally silent, but for the echoes of water dripping off in the stony chasms of Erik's vast domain. Christine's once determined trudge slowed until she was finally still and the dark lake water swirled beneath and around her voluminous skirts.

She was just beginning to turn and flee when something stopped her. A sound, soft and distant resonated over the lake. The voice? Immediately filling with deceptive hope, Christine ran forth into the chilling maze of caves to where she knew her master had once resided. Again, a voice, the words too twisted by the labyrinth of water to understand. She responded, picking up her pace and pulling forward as her water-drenched skirts attempted to slow her - like an anchor resisting the inevitable spinning of a modest fishing ship in the strong winter tides.

Finally, the algae-encrusted bars of the gate came into view. Her heart leapt as again she heard the familiar tinkle of the monkey's music box, the notes resonating softly in her ears. Christine deftly penetrated the iron gates (for by now she had become quite the expert) and broke forth into the breath-taking alcove that housed the remains of Erik's isolated abode. A single candle flickered on the shore and she almost believed she saw it sway in time with the tinkling notes of the music box. Christine Daaé walked towards the debris-scattered shore following the ringing sound of the monkey's song, desperate for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

And finally, they did.


	15. Cachecache

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Fifteen: Cache-cache**

"Looking for someone?" Madame Giry said softly, stepping from the plunging shadows of Erik's lakeside cavern to fix the widow de Chagny with an undeniably knowing look. In one gloved hand, the woman grasped a single, stubby candle that threw flickering shadows across her familiar countenance. Christine felt her heavy heart drop what seemed like miles within her chest, all hope disbanding at the very sight of the stern ballet mistress. Madame Giry let a barely noticeable smile cross her usually cold expression before adding, "not me, apparently."

Christine began to stammer some weak rebuttal before a brusque gesture and another shrewd gaze instantly silenced her. Madame Giry held the candle forth to cast its flickering glow on Christine's ashen countenance (the girl's pallor was painfully white behind the guise of her lace veil). Silently noting the dismay in her friend's dark eyes, Antoinette decided that she should immediately banish any trace of mirth from her voice. She had seen that look in her own eyes often enough – a cold gray gaze staring sadly back at her from an impartial mirror. "I am sorry, little one. He is not here," she said gently, watching another wave of crushing sorrow course through Christine's dark eyes. The Vicomtess avoided Madame Giry's sympathetic gaze and stared instead at her slender hands, still chastely clothed in black lace gloves.

"I know," she whispered, tugging nervously on a loose black thread protruding from a fingertip of the right glove. Madame Giry found that she was without comforting words and busied herself lighting any remaining candles that stood dusty and dark atop the last wrecked candelabras. Soon the cavern was illuminated by the golden glow of the ivory candles, every ruined piece of furniture and ravaged luxury made painfully obvious in the flickering light. Christine looked up from the tear in her glove (which of course had only torn further as a result of her fidgeting) and her breath caught in her throat. The Phantom's eccentric home was now nothing more than a cavernous dump. The sandy shore of the lake was cluttered with what remained of Erik's wrecked belongings, which in turn were adorned with a thick layer of gray dust. Not much had been left; Erik had removed what of the disaster could still be of use in his new home and had abandoned mostly worthless refuse. Christine let a weak sigh escape her lips and Madame Giry turned on her with a calculating look.

"I was an imbécile to come! Christ," Christine suddenly spat, surprising both herself and Madame Giry with the scathing venom in her sweet voice. The Vicomtess's dark eyes swam with frustration as the candles threw dancing shadows across her face; Antoinette mused that in the soft light, imprisoned by the ruined belongings of her former master, Christine looked older than she ever had before.

"How can I tell her?" Antoinette thought numbly as she watched the light play on her former pupil's wan face. After a moment, Christine turned from her friend's gaze to run her fingers over the cracked surface of Erik's desk, ignoring the dust that quickly coated the fingertips of her lace gloves. Her eyes caught on something and she stopped mid-step, mouth gaping slightly in surprise.

"The music box," she said softly, navigating a circuitous path through the wreckage in order to reach the other side of the room, where the monkey sat, dusty and forlorn but still clinging to his golden tambourines. "I thought I had imagined it. Was it you singing?" Christine turned from the music box to glance at Madame Giry, who nodded almost imperceptibly after a long moment's hesitation.

"Oui. Sadly, I do not do even the simplest song justice. Erik would have cringed to hear me butchering his sad lullaby." Christine looked down at the music box resting heavily in her gloved hands. The little monkey was just as she remembered it, its strange fur coated with dust and tambourines irreparably tarnished. "I kept it," said Madame Giry softly, staring at the box, "hoping that someday I'd be able to return it to him. Unfortunately, he has fled yet again. I came here to restore his favored keepsake to its rightful home." Christine's gaze snapped to Antoinette's face and her dark eyes were wide with confusion.

"Fled _again_? He returned? When?" the Vicomtess cried, her questions twisting about one another and tripping as she immediately dissolved into a state of hysteria. The older woman paused, cold gray eyes still locked on the dusty music box in Christine's shaking hands.

"He returned to the Mason de Claudin after you had returned to the Vicomte. And promptly left, or so I'm told," she stated bluntly, eyes lingering on the rusting tambourines clasped in the monkey's tiny paws.

"No," Christine gasped, but Madame Giry only nodded again while refusing to meet her former ward's wide eyes. "But… why would he go?" Christine whispered hoarsely, struggling not to drop the music box and its monkey as her hands trembled violently beneath it. As the incredulous words left her mouth, Madame Giry looked up and smiled sadly, head shaking slightly. Painful understanding drew all remaining blood from Christine's pallid countenance as incredulous pleas slipped from her mouth, mournful and hoarse with disbelief: "Dear God, no. He thought I… Raoul. No, Erik, no…"

Stepping forward to lift the music box from Christine's trembling hands, Antoinette spat, "He has always been a fool." The Vicomtess watched numbly as the music box vanished from her trembling grasp, leaving only the pale palms of her hands sweating beneath their shared guise of dark lace.

"But where has he gone?" Christine asked softly, eyes flickering madly beneath the black lace of her veil.

"That, my dear, I do not know. His servants seemed hesitant to impart such knowledge unto me, although I had the distinct impression that they knew something of it; perhaps you could do better to coax a location from them," Madame Giry said coldly, her steely gaze betraying some intense irritation with said "servants" even as she spoke. Antoinette quickly turned from Christine to place the music box on the cracked hardwood desktop, knowing that when she turned back the girl would no longer be there. When she did at last, Christine was already splashing out across the dark lake, voluminous black skirts hiked up around her knees as if she were a rash schoolgirl. Her modest hat and veil lay floating in her wake, the dark, ornate lace swirling in the lake-water. Madame Giry walked to the water's edge and paused, her gray eyes sad but expression somehow serene, before impulsively calling out into the underground labyrinth of Erik's domain.

"Adieu, my dear." The twisting caverns echoed with Madame Giry's familiar voice, her farewell filling the darkness above the vast lake, and Christine ran through the frigid water, truly unafraid as the resonating night whispered to her, "Adieu, adieu, adieu…"

* * *

The Claudin estate was modest and dimly candlelit; the heavy curtains were drawn tight against the windows to ward off any faint glimmer of the rarely seen London sun. Erik sat at his elegant writing desk, staring blankly at the composition before him. Although his vividly blue eyes lingered on the meticulously written score, his mind wandered elsewhere. He suddenly slammed his crimson fountain pen on the desktop, scattering the varied clutter that had accumulated there with the force of his gloved palm. His imperfect face twisted painfully beneath the unblemished white plane of his façade and Erik impulsively crushed the composition in his trembling fist before casting it to the richly carpeted floor. He relaxed his fist and brought his shaking fingers to his lower lip, only brushing the leather fingertips of his gloves over its smooth surface before again dropping his hand to the desktop. Erik could still feel the cut inside his mouth (despite the weeks that had since passed); the brand of Christine's wrenching kiss refused to heal almost as stubbornly as it refused to be ignored.

London offered Erik no sanctuary, no saving recluse from the tormenting memories that mercilessly plagued him through night and day. Distance had never provided him with solace in past and he honestly didn't know why he had thought it would this time. Perhaps he simply could not be in Paris – could not risk seeing them together. He could not risk happening across the Vicomte and the Vicomtess de Chagny, however unlikely the prospect was. Such a disastrous coincidence would surely kill him, or the Vicomte. Or Christine.

"Damn you," Erik breathed, mind flooding with familiar visions of a dark haired, dark eyed beauty. A cruel, relentless beauty. He could still taste the metallic tang of blood left by the kiss in his mouth and regardless to whose blood it was, the flavor tortured him almost as much as the stubborn cut behind his lip. But there was no torture greater than the knowledge that she, his angel, had once again betrayed him.

* * *

Gaspard stretched out his legs and lazily rested his expensive leather boots on the brocaded surface of the ottoman, relishing the comfortable position he found himself in, both physically and monetarily. As weeks turned to months Monsieur Claudin still had not returned, and finally, after some sweet coercion, Seraphine had convinced her husband to partake of the wealth the master had left them. Not that they were frivolous; the couple was exceedingly careful with the fortune the Phantom had bestowed upon them, for they knew all too well the suffering that came with poverty. As they settled into a more relaxed lifestyle within the Mason de Claudin, the two servants found that more than anything they enjoyed their free time, rather than the money that sustained them in their leisure.

Gaspard had tentatively undertaken the task of sampling the master's extensive private library. Even though the Phantom was undeniably absent, his faithful servant still found straying into the darker wing of the household an anxious endeavor. In Monsieur Claudin's wing of the house the air seemed heavier – stiller – as if in its candlelit rooms and hallways, time itself was suspended in the master's absence. Still, Gaspard was determined. The library was nearly overflowing with books on almost every topic imaginable: from architecture and musical composition to geographical guides of Persia and manuals on the principles of theatrical illusion. Gaspard could see no discernable connection between most, if not all, of the books he discovered in the master's library, and yet he found it all somehow fitting. To say Monsieur Claudin had been _eccentric_ would be a grave understatement, and the eclectic selection of literature in his private chambers did not surprise his servant in the least.

Seraphine, meanwhile, had proved herself most capable when it came to directing the final phases of construction on the Mason de Chagny. While Gaspard vanished within the study he had proclaimed his private chamber with armloads of dusty looking manuscripts, Serpahine commanded a strange army of carpenters and artisans. They followed the plans Monsieur Claudin had left behind to the point of lunacy, but none could deny the overwhelming beauty of the estate eventually born of the meticulously wrought blueprints. Under Seraphine's domineering control, the construction was completed in record time (not to mention at a lower price than should have been fathomable, let alone possible). Gaspard emerged from his study occasionally to compliment his capable wife on her achievement, but otherwise kept mostly to himself and his books.

A warm fire crackled heartily before Gaspard as he plucked a book from the table beside him and opened it to the first page. Just as he was reading the first words of the first sentence, a booming knock at the front entrance echoed through the hallways of the estate. He paused, listening for the telltale footfalls of his wife in the hall, but heard no sounds at all. The insistent knocking at the front door yet again pierced the silence and Gaspard sighed in exasperation, remembering that Seraphine had left for market only an hour ago.

"Christ," he muttered, slamming the book on the table and rising from his extremely comfortable position to make his way to the door. As he made his way down the candlelit hallway to the entry, the knocking continued, aggressive and unbelievably loud. Still muttering obscenities beneath his breath, Gaspard threw open the front door, ready to lay waste to whoever he found.

His breath caught in his throat.

There were impossibly delicate snowflakes swirling around her, clinging in her hair and lace veil like dew does to the new grass on a cold morning in April. Gaspard took a step back, hardly believing that the woman in front of him could be real. The look in her eyes was inhumanly intense; her gaze, although issued through a black draping of delicate lace, conveyed a power so strong he could hardly bear to look at her. Only one other person had ever inspired this dread within him with a mere stare, but the Phantom was not here. Only Christine stood before him, bright snow clinging to her winding locks and lace shroud as sparks jumped from her dark eyes.

"Victomess…" he choked, barely believing that the fierce apparition before him _was_ the lovely girl he had come to adore during her residence at the Mason de Claudin.

"Where is he?" she asked, her sweet voice so low and grating that it no longer seemed to belong to her. Gaspard took another step back, cowering within the grand hall of his estranged master. His heart thudded in his chest as his mind swam with questions. Could he tell her? If he did, what suffering would Monsieur Claudin bring down upon his head upon his unexpected return? And what would happen to Christine if he did tell her?

Christine saw the questions in Gaspard's wide eyes and took a step forward into the foyer, slamming the heavy doors behind her. "I do not have time for this," she thought, not bothering to brush the clinging snow from her shoulders and hair. Instead she fixed the panicked servant with a chilling stare, willing him to surrender and comply.

Gaspard paled considerably. She was so changed. The black veil clung to her face like a mask, but beneath it he could see how ethereally pale she had become. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, but then hesitated, studying her. After a moment of tense consideration, he finally conceded. "Christine, I do not know much, and what I do know I hesitate to tell," he said softly, anxiously glancing about the hall as if expecting the Phantom to suddenly descend upon him from the flickering shadows.

Christine stepped forward and grasped a considerable amount of Gaspard's collar in one small, lace-gloved fist. Startled by both her audacity and impressive strength, he let out a sound much like the shriek of a mouse caught in the claws of a vicious household feline. "Gaspard, you must tell me. You will tell me," she stated firmly, staring down into his honest, paling face. "You will tell me _now_." With that, she released him from her steely grip and he stumbled back, fine clothing disheveled and thinning hair unkempt. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, half convinced that in the short time since he had last seen her, she had quite thoroughly lost her mind. But the gaze with which she considered him was clear, if dark, and there was nothing in them to affirm his suspicions. Finally, he conceded.

"Well…if I must. This way – come with me." Gaspard turned on his heel and hurried into the master's shadowy quarters with Christine close behind. Christine's gaze wandered over the grandeur of the Phantom's private wing of the Mason de Claudin. Since she had last been there, a great deal of work had been done, and she was impressed by the outcome. The design was so obviously Erik's that it almost inspired the same reaction in her as he would – exhilaration. Deep burgundy fabrics and vibrant evergreen upholstery complimented the aged mahogany paneling that lined the hallway, while blazing gold and crimson tapestries and luminous (and eerily familiar) candelabras provided stirring accents to the predominantly dark décor. A tingling chill shot through the length of her back and Christine quickened her pace until she found herself right on Gaspard's heels.

Gaspard paused for a moment when they had reached the door to Monsieur Claudin's bedroom, hesitant as he remembered the dismal scene that he had happened upon so many months ago. An impatient huff from Christine spurred him on and he eased open the heavy double doors. Once inside he rushed to a grand wardrobe in a shadowy corner of the bedroom and immediately began rifling through one of its many drawers. Christine stood silently in the center of the room on an elegant rug that only months ago she had collapsed upon in a feverish swoon.

The somber present rapidly faded in Christine's eyes as she let her mind swim into the past. Here, on this very piece of floor, she had clung to Erik in the depths of illness as he stared down on her in adoration… before she had ruined it. Before she had let three words slip from her mouth, naïve to the terrifying coldness they would provoke in him – the agonizing fear. And then, in a moment of desperation, she had forced upon him a rough and pleading kiss, more an attack than a kiss at all. But even in its violence she had found bliss.

"Victomess?" Gaspard's voice reached across the waters of her wandering consciousness, bringing her back to solid land – back to the lonely present. "Voici, Christine. Read this," he said triumphantly, depositing a rather wrinkled bit of parchment in her gloved hands. With one hand she threw back the lace veil that had obscured her features, finally giving Gaspard a view of her pallid, drawn countenance. She ignored his gaze, unfolded the crumpled note with shaking hands, and began to read. It took her only a moment to finish the letter.

"He always was concise," she said wryly, lifting her gaze to meet Gaspard's dark eyes. For the first time since she had arrived he thought he saw a smile flit across her lips, brief but genuine. He returned the almost nonexistent gesture of warmth and nodded, taking the note from her hands. The widow Chagny reached up with lacey, shaking hands to pull the black veil about her bloodless visage just as Gaspard turned from her to return the note to its safe hideaway.

"Merci, Gaspard," Christine said softly. Gaspard whirled around at the soft sounds of movement behind him and found that the vast bedroom was empty, but for the ringing echoes of footfalls.


	16. The Boy in a Top Hat

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter 16: The Boy in a Top Hat**

"Where do you think she's going?"

"Who knows? She's mad." The legion of maids clustered down the hall like a flock of chattering birds, watching in horrified fascination as the Vicomtess de Chagny dumped a random assortment of her extensive belongings into several large travel trunks.

"Stop gawking! On with your chores!" bellowed a staunch head maid, appearing suddenly out of nowhere to startle the gabbing biddies, who scattered in much the fashion of frightened hens confined to a raucous chicken coop.

Christine was barely aware of the uproar down the hall. She unceremoniously threw a final winter dress into an already overflowing trunk and then slammed it shut. She paused a moment, staring at her gloved hands in a daze. Her fingers were shaking violently beneath the elegant black lace – always turmoil under an unblemished, refined surface. Suddenly seized with an irrepressible rage, she plucked an ornamental music box from her vanity and hurled it across the bedroom. It shattered against the opposing wall, provoking several audible gasps in the hallway (for the maids had already regrouped, naturally), which, of course, Christine ignored completely.  
"Damn," she spat, immediately lamenting her childish outburst. The wrecked music box lay in pieces on the elegant coral carpet. From across the room she could make out the shape of the tiny ballerina that had once danced within the music box, cracked and broken among the shards of wood and glass. Then, unexpectedly, the sounds in the hallway caught her attention.

"Madame? Madame! Where are you going? Madame!" Christine turned her gaze to the door, attention caught as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"I instructed that I was not to be disturbed," she said loudly, about ready to slap any foolish maid who bounced through the doorway. But as soon as the intruder reached the doorway, Christine found she no longer had the will or the want to use the gloved hand raised to the level of her eyes.

"Forgive the intrusion, Vicomtess," Meg Giry said softly, sparkling blue eyes flickering about the chaotic bedroom once before resting on Christine. Several maids burst through the doorway behind Meg, all clamoring and tripping to get through the frame. They shrilly fought for the right to speak for a deafening moment, but all fell silent as soon as they noticed the chilling expression on their mistress's lovely countenance. Instantly deciding that perhaps now was not the time for explanations, the red-faced maids vanished through the doorway as quickly (but far more quietly) as they had appeared.

"Bonsoir, Meg," Christine said coolly, feeling the weight of unspoken questions hanging in the tense air between herself and the woman who had once welcomed her as a sister. Meg fidgeted awkwardly with the worn fabric of her plain dress for a moment before venturing to provide some much needed explanation.

"Maman said you were leaving," she said abruptly, blue eyes wide with apprehension. "I thought… perhaps – perhaps I could go with you! As your handmaiden. I should so like to go with you, Christine…" She trailed off then, dropping her bright blue gaze to her restless hands.

Christine was stunned silent. Never had she expected such an offer; the thought hadn't even crossed her mind in her rush to leave Paris. She stared at Meg, both considering and examining her old friend. Meg was still nervously playing with the rough fabric of her skirt as she avoided acknowledging Christine's silent scrutiny. Mademoiselle Giry, her dear friend of a childhood long past, was much as the Vicomtess remembered her. "Of course she is," thought Christine in surprise. "In truth, it has only been weeks, months perhaps since I have last seen her. Why, then, does it feel like decades?" Several garishly blonde curls had escaped the drab cloth Meg had snugly wound about her bright hair and tied tightly at the base of her slim neck. "She looks so young," Christine mused silently, a strange feeling of nostalgia suddenly choking her. "Do I look that young?" And, afraid to think on it, she shook herself from the plaguing thought.

Looking at Meg, Christine realized that, of course, it would make more sense. Any woman traveling any amount of distance (especially a woman of title) should have at least one maid with her, if not a chaperone. _Not_ to have a maid would be immediately conspicuous, and attention was the last thing Christine wanted in this particular endeavor. And, of course, the irrevocably sensible Madame Giry must have known that. Christine silently cursed her former ballet mistress's shrewdness, irritated that her own intentions had been so obvious, so ridiculously predictable.

"Merci, Meg. I would enjoy your company," Christine finally said in defeat, giving her old friend a rather weak smile of affirmation.

Meg anxiously looked up from her hands to meet Christine's dark eyes. "Excuse-moi, but…where are you going exactly, Christine?" she said hesitantly, eyes searching her friend's alabaster face. The Vicomtess's lips broke into a real smile then, and she said with a strange, uncharacteristic determination in her soft voice, "Londres. We are going to London."

* * *

It was in the frigid days of midwinter that Erik had finally snapped and left the comfortable apartment he kept at The Adelphi, a fashionable housing complex abreast the Thames. Now, in what all of London hoped were the last weeks of la saison froide, there were at least ten centimeters of new snow on the cobblestones outside, but he left the house without noticing. The Adelphi glowed behind him, its windows bright and inviting even as the cold wind off of the river whipped through the heavy material of his cape and dress coat. He ignored the crunch of snow beneath his boots as he made his way through the neighborhood to the Crichton Club.

He could make out the familiar outlines of his favored gentlemen's club among the various buildings of the extensive Adelphi Terrace. He hurried to it, frozen breath escaping his mouth in smoky plumes that swirled around him in the dark street. Before Erik had even reached the entrance of the club, a smartly dressed portier had swept open the grand doors for him and offered an arm for his black cape and gloved hand for his top hat along with the necessary three pounds. Erik handed the fashionable hat and the required currency to the man with a sneer; he loathed the chapeau haute-de-forme with unnecessary vigor, but had unfortunately found it was impossible to venture out in Queen Victoria's London wearing anything but.

"Erik!" A delighted voice welcomed him as Erik swept into the smoky sitting room of the Crichton Club, causing him to immediately wince in displeasure.

"Damn," he muttered, ignoring the cheerful greeting and taking a seat in one of many large, cushioned lounge chairs, his white façade turned to the garishly papered wall in a vain attempt at anonymity. His attempt failed, and only moments later, a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder. Erik instinctively slapped one hand to his mask, only to find it still in its constant, unflinching position across the gruesome right side of his marred face. Bristling, he turned to the loathsome intruder, already struggling to check the potent fury surging in his veins.

"Good evening, Mister Evans," Erik said icily, already looking on the young, jubilant man before him in extreme distaste. "How may I be of service?"

"Erik, really. How many times must I tell you to call me Joseph?" the intruder asked brightly, again clapping an unwelcome hand on Erik's iron shoulder.

"And how many times must I tell you to refer to me only as Monsieur Claudin, if anything?" Erik retorted coldly, turning from the young nobleman in hopes that he might drink his brandy in peace.

"Chilly tonight, aren't we, Erik?" Joseph jested happily, nudging Erik with an elbow as he took a seat at the chair beside the sinister masked man.

"Always, Mister Evans," Erik hissed, slamming his half-finished brandy on the table before him. "Now what, pray-tell, do you want?" Joseph, clearly unfazed by the masked man's flaring rage (or perhaps simply blissfully oblivious), took a deep puff of his tobacco pipe and unceremoniously released a thick cloud of foul smoke in the Phantom's masked face.

"Well now, what was it I was going to ask you?" Mister Evans mused, reaching for the fine silver flask tucked in his silk waistcoat and taking a gargantuan gulp of what Erik could only assume was cheap liquor. Erik groaned beneath his breath and reached forward to take a deep, fortifying swig of his brandy, all the while intensely regretting his decision to leave his apartment at The Adelphi on this particular evening. As soon as the swig of liquor had slid down his throat, Joseph exclaimed, "Ah, now I've remembered!"

"Fabulous, Mister Evans. Do enlighten me." He fixed Joseph with a searing glare from beneath his white mask that could have curdled the blood of a dozen chorus girls, but seemed to have no discernable effect on the presumably daft young man before him.

"Was wondering, Erik," he muttered in an irritatingly conversational tone from around the stem of his smoking pipe, "if you would come to a little ball I'm throwing. Should be a real crush." Joseph turned to find his strange, masked acquaintance staring at him like he had suddenly grown a violet horn from the middle of his high, noble brow. "Such a strange fellow," he thought happily, idly eyeing the unblemished white mask that always clung to the man's face.

Erik gritted his teeth as he felt the man's jovial eyes pause on his mask and desperate for some distraction, he decided to pursue the lamentable topic said gentleman had brought forth so inexplicably. "A ball?" he asked, bored tone blatantly implying the tediousness of the very idea of such a social gathering.

"Yes!" gushed Joseph, voice quivering with an irritating amount of enthusiasm. "You must come!"

"Must I?" said Erik wryly, thinking: "If this boy was not so annoying he would almost be amusing in his complete and utter lack of sense."

"Yes! I'm having guests from out of town – from France in fact! Half the club should be attending. It'll be quite an evening, I'm sure of it. Come now, Erik. What better have you to do?" he asked plaintively, expression reminding Erik very much of a whining child begging for a chocolate. He considered Mister Joseph Evans for a moment, fixing the boy with a long stare from his impossibly blue eyes. Evans was young – unbelievably young. He barely had enough facial hair to keep the "muttonchops" so inexplicably popular in London, and his face (beneath said scraggly, patchy muttonchops) was unblemished by age or hardship. "What does this boy want with me?" Erik thought, eyes narrowing as he mulled over the possibilities. In the back of his tortured mind a tiny, hopeful voice spoke out: "Perhaps he is only looking for a friend?" but Erik spat at and discarded the foolish notion as soon as it came to him, snorting at the absurdity of it all.

Joseph, growing impatient with his eccentric friend's pensive silence, cut into Mister Claudin's thoughts once more. "You can leave the moment you've arrived, if you like. I shan't take 'no' for an answer." Erik opened his mouth, ready to pour forth threats or fierce denials or at least the aforementioned "no", but then surprised himself.

"Yes, Mister Evans. Yes, I shall attend," Erik said, intensely blue eyes widening in disbelief even as the unexpected acceptance left his mouth. His mind screamed at him in a hysterical rage: "What? Fine? What are you thinking? Fool! Repulsive monster…"

"Excellent!" chirped Joseph, ignoring the fact that all blood had fled the already deathly pale face of the intense man before him, leaving his visage as white as the expressionless mask that clung to it.

* * *

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade_

_ Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you._

They were singing my song. They were singing the song my mother gave me, the melancholy lullaby that both cruelly mocked and kindly comforted me. They were singing my desperate song like it was a charming game – a silly dancing game they were playing at in their beautiful masks of gold and black. Luxurious, theatrical masks that playfully obscured only equally beautiful faces, unblemished and adored. Perfect, smooth flesh as I have never known.

_ Masquerade, every face a different shade,_

_ Masquerade, look around – there's another mask behind you._

I reached up to check my own mask – to run my gloved, trembling fingers over its menacing visage. The death mask: terrifying, yes, and yet infinitely less so than the molten flesh it concealed. Yes, it was in place. They were going scream, but with less terror than they would if I were to appear without this sinister, skull-like façade. Or perhaps they would scream because they would suspect what living nightmare lies beneath its fearsome exterior. But how could they have know? How could they?

_ Masquerade, Burning glances, turning heads._

_ Masquerade, Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you._

Christine was there. With _him_, that cheap imitation of a man, that beautiful boy-child she was so infatuated with. The Vicomte, how I loathed him. I despised him for his flawless features, his undeniable allure. If I had been born that way… no, I could not bear to think of it, for it was only a desperate dream. Un rêve… Christine.

_ Masquerade, Grinning yellows, spinning reds,_

_ Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you…_

I appeared before them, stepping from the shadows like a frightening, impossible apparition. The Opera Ghost. I saw the petrifying dread even beneath their pretty masks, their charming golden façades. It was the first ball I had ever attended, and I was obviously not on the guest list. I searched the gaping crowd from beneath my fearsome death mask, hunting desperately for her lovely face among the ornate throng. None possessed her ethereal beauty – none even came close. But that was true everywhere, beyond the walls of the Opera Populaire, for in the cold world there was not a single face as glorious as hers. And finally, I found her face, paling and lovely even as she stood shaking beside that coward of a boy.

_ Why so silent, good Monsieurs?_

_ Did you think that I had left you for good?_

Her dark eyes clung to my face – deep, pleading orbs that could so easily drown me. The Vicomte fled immediately (hardly the proper matador if you ask me) but she stood her ground, the barely trembling statue of an angel inexplicably placed in the middle of a crowded room. I was drowning in Christine's tearing eyes; she was dragging me down with the unbearable weight of emotions she aimed at me through her dark stare. I tore my eyes from her perfect face, pleading with myself to remember why I had come, why I had ascended my Hell into this gaudy playground of noble patrons, tempting chorus girls, and absurdly egotistical pigeons who pretended to be opera singers.

_ Have you missed me, good Monsieurs?_

_ I have written you an opera!_

_ Here, I bring the finished score._

_ Don Juan Triumphant!_

My hands were shaking violently as I cast forth the heavy, leather bound score. I knew already that they would not understand it; they would be unable to appreciate its strange composition and jarring instrumentals. I had not written it for _them_, the ignorant crowds and petty players. I had written it for _her_, out of my passion for her. Only something so dark and violent could possibly describe the strength of my adoration for Mademoiselle Daaé. The all-consuming intensity of my _love_ for Christine. And would she appreciate it? How, then, could I know?

_ Fondest greetings to you all…_

_ A few instructions just before the rehearsal starts._

_ Carlotta must be taught to act,_

_ Not her normal trick of strutting around the stage._

_ Our Don Juan must lose some weight,_

_ It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age._

_ And my managers must learn that their place is in an office – not the arts._

Why had I even bothered to waste time on these mindless puppets? Abandoning my mocking onslaught of those persons whom barely deserved to even be acknowledged, let alone verbally abused, I turned to Christine. She stared up at me from the base of the marble staircase, chest heaving within the satin confines of her delicately hued evening dress. I instantly felt delirious; her effect on my mind and body was like that of a potent narcotic. I think it would not be false to say that in that instant my foolish heart pounded only in expectation that I might touch her once more, should I live another moment.

_ As for our star, Miss Christine Daaé…_

_ No doubt she'll do her best._

_ It's true, her voice is good -_

_ She knows, though, should she wish to excel_

_ She has much still to learn._

_ If pride will let her return to me, her teacher,_

_ Her teacher…_

My voice died in my throat as I looked at her, feverishly swallowing her beauty with all the blind desperation of a starving man. There was something so beguiling and foreign in her frightened gaze, as if her eyes alone could caress my longing, untouched skin. Was it fondness I saw? Perhaps adoration? Perhaps, even, love? Long-scathing hope was swelling in my leaping heart until I felt as if I was suffocating – as if my mortal body simply could not contain the unstoppable emotions that threatened and grew within my living chest, in the depths beneath my ribs and against my lungs. And so I was stripped of my ability to breathe, rendered speechless as any mindless swain. But then, I looked down. It was a glance of considerably inappropriate intentions, or so many would have thought. I dropped my feverish gaze to her heaving breast – the soft skin that, yes, I longed to caress – but also my eyes sought something more. A priceless thing I wished to possess more than I ever would her body. I desired something deeper than the physical exterior, for beneath that lusty sheath of unblemished flesh lay something infinitely more precious. In the bosom of my love lay her beating heart, the center of her rare and yet unbridled passion, and it was that I sought more than anything in this world. And perhaps it is the irrefutable truth in that sad admission that made my devastating discovery so unbearably potent in its cruelty. There, nestled against her forbidden skin and beside her precious heart lay a secret ring, innocently mocking me as it sparkled on its modest chain. I think it would not be an exaggeration to say that a single band of gold and accompanying stud of diamond destroyed me. And, enraged, I tore the pendant from her silken throat as she had torn the hope from my beating center.

_ Your chains are still mine,_

_ You belong to me!

* * *

_

Meg jumped from her seat as the heavy thud of the doorknocker resounded through the modest apartment. Christine did not so much as flinch; she hunched over an elegantly presented cup of tea, breathing in the warm aromas as she stirred the steeping liquid with a ivory-handled spoon. She could hear Meg calling out in a mixture of French and heavily accented English as she raced down the hall to the entryway ("Oui, oui! I am coming! Oui!"), and smiled into her teacup.

The creak of the door opening and a delighted cry from Meg announced the arrival of a favored guest and Christine idly brushed any plausible crumbs from her heavy winter dress before standing to make her way to the door.

"It's Monsieur Evans! Christine! Monsieur Evans…" Meg called impatiently, high voice ringing through the hall. Christine picked up her pace, suddenly anxious to reach the door.

London had treated them well, since the moment they'd stepped off the loathed packet boat after their short (but unpleasant) journey across La Manche. Money and title were popular under the reign of Victoria, and the widowed Vicomtess de Chagny and her delightful companion were immediately welcomed into a housing arrangement of considerable class. With that, of course, came favorable (and useful) contacts with other residents, who all seemed pleasant gentlemen and ladies from the start. One young man, in particular, had been notably genial (especially in the wide blue eyes of Meg Giry); Joseph Evans was not only an dashing member of the London elite, but also a considerate and kind-hearted young man of twenty-two. And it was in he that Christine confided her purpose in London: the search for the mysterious Mister Claudin. She had almost fainted dead away when he gladly chirped that he already had the pleasure of knowing her eccentric friend, as they both frequented the same Crichton Gentleman's Club at Adelphi Terrace. And the Vicomtess fell to her knees (an undertaking in voluminous petticoats and a bustle) and thanked God for small miracles.

"Shush, I am here," Christine said softly, appearing from the dimly lit hallway into the chandelier lit entryway. She nodded to the young, slightly disheveled young gentleman standing in the grand foyer. "Good evening, Mister Evans," she murmured, momentarily forgetting her anxiety as she eyed Meg with some amusement, who was staring blankly at the handsome caller with an uncharacteristically dreamy look on her pretty face.

"Must I always remind you to call me Joseph, Christine? Everyone else does," he said jovially, fiddling with the wet silk top hat he held at his side.

"What news, _Joseph_?" Christine asked impatiently, glancing at the young man's fashionable top hat in blatant distaste. A wide, amused grin erupted on Joseph's amiable visage as he noticed the subject of her disgusted stare. Christine sighed, smiled, and said, "Come now, Joseph. Must we box it out of you?" He relented, having decided he had tortured the poor Viscountess long enough.

"Well, I have decided to throw a ball! A grand event, to be sure – a real crush. And…" he said, trailing off dramatically, "I have invited your friend, Mister Claudin, to the occasion." Meg gasped, snapping her gaze from Joseph's handsome countenance to stare at her mistress, uncertain of what Christine's reaction to this unexpected news would be. She felt apprehension racing in her veins as she watched a considerable amount of blood drain from Christine's already pale complexion. The Vicomtess coughed hoarsely, as if trying to find her voice.

"But surely, Joseph, Monsieur Claudin did not agree to attend?" Christine choked, fixing Mister Evans with an unreadable expression. At this retort, Joseph's already wide smile only grew.

"He has! I scarcely believed it myself, Ma'am, but he accepted the invitation. Took it right from my two hands, I swear to you." Christine's mouth fell open, but she found she did not have the words necessary to fill the emptiness. The room and the people around her became blurry, as if the effort it took her mind to process this, the unlikeliest of occurrences, left no energy to properly provide her with sight. "What is this? Attend a ball, the Phantom of the Opera? How can this be?" she thought, almost delirious as the possibilities born of such a miracle became clear to her. "Mon Dieu… I could see him. I could ambush him there – stun him as he has always stunned me." Still, although a happiness that had become foreign to Christine warmed her to the core, doubts began to pull at the threads of her hopes, unraveling the elaborate design she was already weaving.

And a vicious, unhappy thought came to her. "What if he turns me away?" The months of mourning and years of longing had hardened Christine, but at this cruel possibility she felt her armor melt about her until it pooled in a useless puddle at her feet. Just as Christine began to feel the once-familiar sensation of fierce tears pricking in her eyes, a merry voice tore her from her hysterical contemplation.

"What a surprise it shall be! I absolutely _forbid_ either you or Mademoiselle Giry to refuse my invitation, Viscountess. I should be devastated." Joseph smiled at her, eyes twinkling and pleased. Christine found she had not the will to decline and dull his innocent exuberance, so she nodded dully, signaling her acceptance. Joseph laughed happily and grabbed Meg's hands to dance her about the small but elegant entryway, but Christine was scarcely aware of their enthusiasm. All sound in the room seemed but an echo. "What can come of this?" she asked herself, old fears tingling through the length of her back. She stared down at her hands, on which chaste black lace could not disguise the violent trembling of her slender digits. For a dizzying moment she could have sworn that she held within her fingers the waxen, thorny stem of a crimson rose.

_ But his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound,_

_ In the night there was music in my mind._

_ And from music my soul began to soar,_

_ And I heard as I'd never heard before…

* * *

_

Erik regarded his reflection coldly, as one might a stranger. He looked upon himself with the same distance that he had seen in the beautiful, wide eyes of his mother. Sighing, he smoothed the fabric of his silk cravat and meticulously straightened his dark satin waistcoat. "That boy is going to pay for this charade," he thought bitterly, knowing that even as the spiteful thought crossed his mind, he would never act upon it. Joseph Evans was disgustingly well meaning, and punishing him would be akin to kicking a puppy that did not know it had done wrong. Erik glared at the crumpled invitation on the table before him, grimacing at the mere thought of what awaited him at this cursed ball.

"Since when does the Opera Ghost feel required to attend such a garish affair?" Erik mused, feeling rather disgusted with himself. He paused to run a gloved hand over the smooth surface of his most constant accessory. "And what would they say, if they knew?" he said aloud, addressing no one but his own sinister reflection. "No more ball invitations then, I'd venture." He dropped the hand from his façade and donned his black overcoat and cloak. A newly purchased brushed silk top hat mocked him from the hat-stand.

"Why this feeling of dread, this flutter in the depths of my chest?" he wondered, staring at the hat. "How can one have such foul misgivings about a damned gala?" Erik turned back to his hated reflection and passed a nervous hand over his dark hair. His mind sang to him a name he knew too well, for her name was in every beat of his foolish heart. Erik reached for his mask with a trembling hand and pulled it off. He stared at the gruesome flesh his action had exposed - the face pale as clean snow and hand shaking like the last leaf of fall. Running that shaking hand over the wrecked terrain of his monstrous visage, he breathed her name like one would a desperate prayer: "Christine…"


	17. A Grand Affair

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Seventeen: A Grand Affair**

Christine had never been the type to swoon, but Erik seemed to have an unfortunate knack for bringing the feminine faint out in her. The world blurred and spun as she unsteadily made her way up the marble stairs, all the while desperately gripping Meg's warm hand in her cold, gloved grasp as if she meant to strangle the life from her friend's palm. Meg tactfully ignored this and gently guided the widowed Vicomtess through the sweeping front doors and up a staircase crowded by a morass of smartly dressed porters, butlers, and waiters into a garishly decorated ballroom teaming with all the elite of the London social scene. Christine did not release her friend's hand from its iron stranglehold; in fact, the power of her grip seemed only to increase as they joined the gaudy crowd.

A light, cheerful instrumental piece served as the barely audible background sound for what could only be described as a deafening raucous. Various elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies swam through Christine's distorted vision – unfamiliar faces in a sea of glittering haze. She struggled to focus, knowing that the next face that appeared before her could very well belong to the one person she longed to see most in this world, and yet whose sinister presence she dreaded beyond all comprehension. Meg leaned in, still grasping her lace-swathed hand, and whispered, "I do not see him, my lady, but do not worry." Christine vaguely nodded only to find the barely perceptible motion of her head almost too great for her overwhelmed senses, in her nearly hysterical state, to bear. Heady tobacco smoke filled Christine's nostrils, choking her. Panicking, she dropped Meg's stinging hand and began to scrabble her way through the dense crowd, her movements as frenzied as those of the overboard sailor who fights against the unyielding, endless sea even as he begins to drown. In the muddle of strange faces and heavy smoke she finally made out an opening in the heavy tapestries and vaulted ceilings, and ran for it.

As her feet touched the cool marble of the balcony, the vast night sky opened above her, dark and full of stars. The sounds of the gay affair behind the Vicomtess grew blissfully distant as the cool breeze from the Thames swept over her face and bare shoulders. The world finally began to steady about her as she desperately breathed in great gulps of the smokeless air. She nervously ran her trembling hands down the voluminous fabric of her dress, pausing to gaze down on both her hands and what they stroked. Her hands were, as usual, cloaked in a dark vestige of black lace that could almost, but not quite disguise the trembling of her slender fingers. The fabric of her skirt was fine, but inappropriately deep in shade for such a merry event. The color was of a burgundy hue, but so dark that in the shadows on the balcony it looked midnight-black. She looked like a woman in mourning. Christine found she no longer knew for whom or what she was mourning, but knew that she could not don any color of her bright youth so long as her foolish heart remained feeling so brutally ravaged.

"Christine! There you are!" An impossibly cheerful voice cut through her melancholy musings, and Christine calmly glanced up from her hands, knowing even before she looked that the jovial voice that had penetrated the darkness surrounding her could not belong to her Angel. And so it was. Joseph Evans stood at her side, beaming as Meg hovered, blushing happily, in the darkness over his shoulder. "We have been looking all over for you." He smiled again, and Christine looked up, already anxious; what news would this smiling man bring? Her heart began to beat violently in her chest, as if she had imprisoned it beneath her ribs against its crimson will and now, revived by the fear coursing through her veins, it struggled desperately to be free.

"He is not yet here," Joseph said apologetically, laying a soft, white-gloved hand on her bare shoulder. He gave her a reassuring look through the intricately decorative veil that clung lightly to her delicate features, his eyes sparkling brightly. "You look lovely tonight, Christine," he added, ignoring the sickly hue of her face and the dark shadows beneath her brown eyes beneath the vestige of the veil. Joseph turned then, smile growing even wider, and added, "As do you, Mademoiselle Giry." Meg's blush immediately deepened, the natural rouge in her pale cheeks only setting off the light rose of her new evening gown. He opened his mouth as if about to add something, but seemed to think better of it and turned back to the Vicomtess, eyes kind even if the expression was slightly forced. Christine read the look, and sighed.

"Go, dance. This is your affair, Joseph. I shall not let you waste it. Go enjoy yourself," she said authoritatively, adding a weak smile to encourage the two, who glanced at one another nervously.

Joseph cleared his throat and said deeply (obviously trying to disguise how high and anxious his voice had gone), "Would you like to dance, Mademoiselle Giry?" Meg beamed and placed a quivering hand on his outstretched arm, pausing only to throw a grateful look over her shoulder as Joseph swept her into the ballroom. Christine smiled back, and if the expression was more than a bit contrived, Meg did not notice. As soon as the young couple had melted into the gay, madding crowd, Christine turned her back on the party and stared out over the rooftops London, elbows resting inelegantly on the marble balustrade of the balcony. She let the cheery sound of the party wash over her now and sweep out over London, carried by the light breeze. And, like an echo on the river's wind, she could hear his heavenly voice (though she knew it just a waking, longing dream).

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination,_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses._

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor._

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day,_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,_

_And listen to the music of the night._

The wind off the Thames whipped through her hair and tore at her black veil, but she barely felt it. Christine closed her eyes to the stars and waited, hoped, for fate to finally step in and lend her the aid she had so long been owed.

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Close your eyes - let your spirit start to soar,_

_And you'll live as you've never lived before. _

The pressure of her heart had softened, and she found she was no longer afraid.

The gala was already in the height of its opulence when he reached the Evans estate. Light and sound poured from the wide windows on the second floor, beckoning guests and instantly repulsing Erik. The invitation weighed in his waistcoat pocket like an anchor, tugging him to his proper place even as he fought violently against its undeniable strength. He paused in the street, eyes closed and hands shaking. "You can do this," he silently told himself, "you got yourself into this dreadful mess, and now you must carry through with your commitments. Mon dieu, man, it isn't a torture chamber." Steeling himself against the agony he was about to willingly endure, Erik set his jaw and strode up the steps and through the entrance, startling several butlers and porters with his sinister, masked presence. He tactfully ignored them and made his way up the extravagant staircase to the second floor – the deceptive den of the gilded tiger, in his mind. Instantly, the raucous, unharmonious sounds of the ball and tasteless garishness of the room assaulted his senses. The guests were in the midst of some dreadfully choreographed dance, the ladies swooping in voluminous, bustled gowns while the gentlemen led in identical suits and silk waistcoats. Erik stifled his immediate need to retch.

His eyes had found Joseph in the morass, dancing gaily with a young lady whose face Erik could not quite see. However, everything about the young lady (even just the back of her) the merry nobleman was dancing with was chillingly familiar. The girl moved with all the easy grace of one trained to dance whilst her bright, blonde ringlets flew through the smoky air behind her. Ignoring the learned movements of the rest of the dancing partners, Joseph spun the girl, laughing as he gazed on her with an enchanted look in his bright eyes. Erik felt his heart stumble within his chest. Her _face_. The young, graceful lady was no stranger at all; in fact, she was undeniably and horribly familiar. Meg Giry smiled back at the young Mister Evans, her blue eyes sparkling with the same emotion held within his as her blonde curls fell about her shoulders.

"Christ!" Erik swore aloud, eyes locked to Meg's lovely young face. She turned her eyes from Joseph's face as if she suddenly sensed someone's curious gaze, and Erik reflexively spun on his heel, a trembling, gloved hand held to his unavoidably conspicuous mask as if to obscure it, should her prying stare rest on him. From behind his hand he feverishly sought an exit – an escape. Finally, his sharp eyes fell on the wide exit to a balcony on the far side of the raucous ballroom. Torn between outrage and disbelief, Erik fought his way through the boisterous crowd until, finally, he broke free and could move quickly towards the sanctuary of cloaking night. He practically ran out onto the wide balcony, letting out an audible sigh of relief; blissful night opened above his head as the panoramic view of London spread before him, the garish lights of the city encroaching on the abashed stars above. But panic still gripped his chest, and he decided that time spent savoring the relief of his escape from the ballroom would better be spent escaping the ball altogether. Checking the position of his precious façade with one gloved hand, Erik began the short walk to the edge of the balcony, from which he planned to jump, catlike and undetected.

He stopped dead and almost cursed aloud as he noticed a dark figure standing at that vastly important edge of the balcony, facing away from him. "How will I get out?" he thought wildly, not favoring the idea of jumping from the second story balcony with some foolish party guest there to witness the stunt. He took a hesitant step forward, squinting as his eyes in hopes of discovering the mysterious person before him was simply some inebriated fool (for, surely, no one would believe the story of a masked man leaping from the second floor quite so willingly when it came from the lips of a person in the midst of a dreadful hangover). The shadow his body had thrown over the person before him vanished as he took a step forward, and the bright, intrusive light of the chandeliers within the ballroom expertly lit the breadth of the sweeping marble balcony. And in that flash of garish light, everything was illuminated. Erik stood, statuesque, his lungs torn of all air and heart robbed of all ability to beat.

Her hair was long. The vast majority of her rich, luxuriant locks were pinned high on her head in some ornate design, but a few dark curls hung free down the length of her back. The mere sight of those mahogany locks brought the fleeting memory of a scent to his senses, and Erik froze, instantly robbed of his ability to flee. The scent was not a memory, but real. Painfully and inexplicably real, the aroma reached his battered senses. Her neck. Slender, smooth, and alabaster. He had laid his trembling hand on the skin of that neck, but that seemed a lifetime ago. A world ago. He could see the quiver in her shoulders, her arms. And then, before he could flee, hide, or fly, she turned to face him.

* * *

Christine stiffened as the sound of fast, heavy footsteps reached her ears. A sigh, low and incensed with relief gave voice to the footsteps. Christine sighed to herself, sure that the sigh belonged to the delightful Mister Evans, come to find her (or worse, ask her to dance). Pasting a smile on her pale face, she turned from the view to assure Mister Evans of her wellbeing. But the face she found staring back at her did not belong to Mister Evans at all. From beneath a white mask, icy blue eyes sparked at her, daring her to breath.

The world fell unbearably silent, all sounds of the ball behind them and the city before them melting away into nothing. But it was not the heavy, stifling silence Christine had sensed between them in the years past, deep underground in a dark, resonant cavern. This somber silence stretched out around them in all directions, and Christine trembled at both its vastness and its emptiness, for nothing living breathed within its reaches but Erik, and her.

Her gaze was locked with his and she felt as if the sparking, arctic-blue depths of his eyes were searing her with their inhuman intensity. The expressionless white mask clung to the right half of his face, both blissfully familiar and horrendous in its constant presence. The naked half of his face was more beautiful than she could have remembered; the grace of his brow and strength of his jaw were otherworldly in their pale perfection. The black coat, dark silk waistcoat, and burgundy cravat he wore were much like the clothing of his time in the Opera Populaire, and the living memory made her shudder. Her Angel always had been dark. Christine could see his cunning mind working beneath his eyes – what he was thinking, however, she could not possibly guess. His gaze was closed to her, and she saw no emotion bubbling in the depths of his startling eyes. A strand of his immaculately coifed hair worked it way from the rest and slipped down to rest, impossibly black, across the smooth white plane of his façade.

The mere sight of her lovely, disarming face left him paralyzed. Unstoppable dread rose in his heart as his eyes drank in the sorrowful expression in her chocolate gaze. She stared at him from beneath the clinging, lace vestige of a decorative veil, and although Erik knew that such veils were generally meant for modesty or simply decoration, he found hers distinctly meaningful. The light piece of lace hung before her eyes like a curtain and clung to her pale features like a mask. And beneath it, he could make out the disturbing hue of her complexion – white as chalk, or snow. The veil could not obscure the deep shadows beneath her dull, tired eyes.

But still, she was beautiful. Her beauty, which had once been lively and warm – the very manifestation of youth – was now haunting and cold, like the bare, mournful branches of a tree in winter. He shuddered at the unexpected change in her, but only loved her more for it. "NO," his mind screamed, "she left you! She left you and ran back to that boy of a man! You cannot love her." But Erik knew in his heart that such desperate reasoning was useless; the crushing strength of his love for the paling woman before him was beyond the shadow of a doubt. "But I shall not let her know," he thought frantically, fighting not to let the mournful longing in his heart seep into his gaze, where she might see it and know his foolish affection, and pity him for it. Or worse, laugh aloud.

"Erik." His name slid between her lips before she could swallow it, escaping with a sobbing breath so that it sounded more like a hoarse gasp than a word at all. The sound was barely a whisper, and yet it seemed to resonate in the vast silence between them so that what was nothing at all became deafening. He drew a step back, cold eyes wide and expression momentarily unguarded – it was as if another mask, one created by the very skin of his face, was torn away for but an instant. In that vulnerable second, Christine saw all she needed. Longing coursed through his face, blatant and painful, while his eyes clung to her like pleading hands. And then the moment was over; Erik regained his stiff composure and again his face became as hard and expressionless as the white mask that half-obscured it. The adoration vanished from his stare and his eyes went blank; he shut her out, swiftly and securely. But powerful hope coursed through Christine, pumping through her heart and veins like crimson blood, for she knew all that he did not want her to know; Christine knew that beneath Erik's desperate façade of cold indifference lay violent, irrepressible love.

"Erik, I-," she began softly, prepared to beg, to plead for his love. She prepared to tear through the layers he had built around his heart – to break through the cold callous of apathy he had tried so hard to maintain.

"Vicomtess, be calm please. Your presence here is a most unpleasant surprise. Do not make what is already a wretched situation worse by speaking," he said coldly, eyes narrowing dangerously as he clenched his trembling hands to fists at his sides. Christine barely stifled her impulsive cry; the haunting voice that she had remembered as angelic was now hollow and frigid, and his coldness chilled her to the bone. His venomous words hung in the silent air between them like a noxious smoke. Tears pricked in her gaze, despite her efforts to prevent them. She closed her dark eyes, praying that the salty tears would catch on her eyelashes and vanish – that he would never know they were there at all. But her attempt failed, and a single tear escaped her thick eyelashes to snake down her ashen cheek, obvious even beneath the black lace of her shroud.

Erik saw the tear streak her face. It took every ounce of will within him to resist running to her – to resist lifting a finger to gently stroke away the evidence of her sorrow. His fists shook at his sides as he looked at her. The pain in his heart turned to rage as he watched the tear cling to her pale cheek beneath her closed eye; what right had _she_ to cry? Something within him snapped then, and he roared at her, his voice suddenly ragged and primal, "How dare you cry before me? Damn you, you heartless child. Do you even know what you do?"

Her dark eyes snapped open to meet his, her gaze sparking with fury. The intensity of her stare was so great that he almost took a step back, awed by the raging fire he saw burning beneath her eyes.

"How dare I? What do you want from me? What more can I do?" Christine screamed, advancing on the Phantom with eyes blazing. With shaking hands she reached up to tear the black veil from her face so that she stared at him, her visage naked before him and skin deathly pale. Erik faltered as she approached him, incensed with rage, but his own hot anger bade him stand his ground. "I am alone in this world. I have abandoned all that I have ever known for you_,_ to come to this blasted place and find you! What more can I do, Erik? Tell me!" Her voice finally cracked under the weight of impending tears and she halted her advances, so that she stood but a step away from him, staring him down with all the fury that years of suffering and longing had rewarded her. Her final command rang in the air between them, piercing and desperate, as she stood waiting for his answer.

Erik stared at her in silence, his blue eyes now wide with something akin to disbelief. "To find me?" he whispered, the beat of his heart so loud in his ears that he could not hear himself speak. Christine's pale, tear-streaked face, which had been tense with anger, slightly softened. If anyone but Erik had looked on her, they would not have seen the change in her eyes, but to his eyes the barely detectable alteration was colossal. He let his gloved hands relax and hang loose at his sides, the fingers trembling. "You came to find me?" he repeated, voice still soft and full of doubt.

"Of course, you daft fool. Why else would I be here?" All fury had left her, and now Christine felt only weary – overwhelmingly and impossibly weary. She searched his masked face, caressing his bare cheek and prying at the smooth edges of his façade with her dark, raw eyes. Quaking, Christine took a step forward, closing most of what was left of the gap between herself and her dark Angel.

"Erik," she pleaded, reaching up with a shaking, lace-enclosed hand as if to stroke his naked cheek. His eyes immediately narrowed and as if waking from a trance, he jerked away from her questing hand, fierce derision painted on his tense visage.

"STOP," he hissed, lips curling back as if in disgust. "I grow weary of your lies." Christine cried out as if she had been struck across the face and reached out to grab the silk of his cravat in one tight fist. She roughly forced his face inches from her own and stared straight into the seething blue depths of his eyes.

"No more of this redundant game," she said forcefully, eyes hard and determined. "You cannot hide from me." A low growl rumbled in Erik's chest and he reached up to grab her invasive hand in an iron grip.

"You try my patience, Vicomtess," he spat, tightening his grasp painfully around her slender fist.


	18. A Crime of Passion

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Eighteen: A Crime of Passion**

"And what would happen, Erik, dare I try your patience?" Christine said softly, staring up at him. She smiled slightly, in the manner of a person who smiles when nothing, nothing in the world, is left to smile about. Her pale, unveiled face was eerily serene - her bloodless lips pulling at the corners, but her eyes were hard and fierce.

Erik found that the lacy hand he gripped so violently had released the silk of his dark cravat. Now, her gloved fingers returned his iron grip, imprisoning his hand as he imprisoned hers. Instead, she searched his face with rich, bottomless eyes. Tilting her head slightly to one side, Christine asked coolly: "Would you kill me, Erik?"

Erik ripped his fingers from Christine's powerful grasp and threw her hand from his chest as if the contact burned, eyes darkening beneath his unflinching mask until they looked more black than blue. "Why have you come here?" he hissed, incensed with wild anger. The cruelty of her appearance stung his heart; she had left him for Raoul, and she returned to him, expecting mercy? Did she think him a fool – a pitiful, romantic fool? She mocked him with her return. The utter arrogance of her presence drove him mad; the agony in his chest told Erik that he had every right to kill the foolish girl for her transgressions, past and present. "Why should I not kill her?" the Phantom mused, trembling with rage. "Why not destroy the source of my agony?"

Christine's hands curled into tight fists at her sides. She stood before the dreaded Phantom of the Opera, uncompromising, unapologetic, and completely and utterly beautiful. The glow of the ballroom behind her caught in her dark hair, lighting the curls red and gold – the color of flames. At the mere sight of her, pale face framed with fire, Erik felt a sharp pang in his chest – unwanted evidence of the love that he would not, could not forget. But the longing he felt only incensed his insane fury; her beauty only mocked his pathetic nature, his ruined face. Somewhere within him a voice whispered: "No, you can't," pleading quietly with his powerful rage, "Please… do not hurt her…"

"WHY?" the Phantom roared into the night, refusing to listen to the soft pleas of mercy that stirred within him.

_Would you kill me, Erik? _The monstrous creature within him hissed, seductive as Eve's snake, "Yes. Oh yes." And all the merciful reason he had clung to fled.

"I came to find you," Christine whispered, suddenly terrified by the fire in his voice. His eyes burned her, like blistering ebony pools from which no light could escape. There was a low rumble in his chest, like the growl of a fierce beast cornered by a hunter. Sudden doubt whispered in her pounding heart, unwanted but unstoppable. There was something in his face that now terrified her; she could not see the bright blue of his eyes, and his gaze was wild from beneath the mask. More of his fastidiously groomed black hair had fallen before his face and lay limp and twisted across the blindingly white surface of his façade. The hint of warmth Christine had seen in his sparking eyes only minutes before seemed a hopeful fantasy in the face of the terrifying countenance before her. He stared at her as if she were disgusting – a scourge upon his life. "I CAME TO FIND YOU," Christine screamed, her beautiful face contorting with pain.

Erik advanced on her, the shreds of sanity within him long since abandoned for madness. "Do you regret finding me now, _Vicomtess_?" he cried. His voice cracked as he spoke, and what should have been threatening was only tragic. Christine stood her ground, refusing to cower in the face of his boundless ferocity. A piece of her torn veil floated down to obscure her right eye – a mask of ruined lace. He encroached until he could feel her rasping exhalation on his own skin, and even in the violence of his wrath he relished the airborne caress of her breath. She looked up at him only to find two fierce black pools staring back.

"In her death you would find freedom," Erik thought frantically, reaching towards her with a shaking hand. His heart beat violently beneath his ribs – so hard he thought he would break. "She could no longer haunt you. She could never leave you." Christine stared at his reaching hand in horror, recognition filling her gaze. "Even now she hates you," he mused, seeing the ghostly reflection of his mask in the pupils of her wide eyes, "and you love her." His trembling hand finally found her throat, his fingers pausing on the soft, pale skin above her collarbone. The cool fabric of his glove felt alien against her neck and she almost cried out for the horror of it.

"I came to find you," Christine whispered tears welling in her mirror-like eyes. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he barely heard her voice. She felt the fingers at her neck begin to press into her skin, grasping her throat like the rough cords of a noose. Christine searched his eyes for any sign of the man she had known – her angel. "Erik?" she choked.

"Why, Angel?" Erik whispered, deep voice cracking as if tears now threatened the clarity of his own shadowed. "Why did you have to come?"

Christine sank to her knees before him, tears wetting her face like rain. The saline water of her weeping soaked through the black cloth of his glove, the tears cold but their touch on his skin searing. He could feel the frenetic throb of her pulse beneath the silken skin of her neck – a tiny heartbeat. Even as he tightened his chokehold, his hand shook violently and his wildly vibrant eyes began to tear. His other hand hung tight-fisted at his side, bloodless beneath its sinister glove.

Curls and lace hung in Christine's face like a joyless veil. She did not struggle – did not attempt to tear herself from the Phantom's vice-like grip. She knew he would kill her now, freeing them both, mad in his desperation to end their joint anguish. But she knew that he acted in vain, for she saw the longing burning in the depths of his inhuman eyes, even beneath the bitter façade that obscured his beautiful face. Christine knew, beyond doubt, that in her death he would only find endless grief – a dark insanity that preys on the body and tortures the mind. And even in that moment, as his hand wrung the life from her, she loved him.

"I forgive you," Christine choked, "My Angel." His hand froze about her throat, fingers still buried in the soft skin of her neck. She felt his fingers tremble against her.

Erik brought his face within a hand's breadth of hers, his darkened eyes wild and wet with unshed tears. She could feel his warm breath on her lips - hear the ragged sobs he held in his throat. He hissed, voice more like that of a viper than that of an angel, "_Why?_"

The corners of her bloodless lips pulled, as if she was trying to smile, and, trembling, she brought one lacy hand to his bare cheek. Instantly, his shadowed eyes went wide beneath the unflinching mask, and she saw them clear slightly of their darkness, as if he were being roused from a bad dream. Her slender fingers rested there, against his smooth cheekbone and the shaking muscles of his jaw, as his hand weighed against the smooth flesh of her neck. Christine's lips were white and her voice was strangled of all its sweetness, but he heard her whispered answer nonetheless.

_"_You fool. Don't you yet know that I love you?"

Erik let out a horrified cry and wrenched his hand from her throat and face from her touch, his eyes a brilliant, impossible blue. He took an unsteady step backwards, staring at her as if she were an apparition. Christine coughed sharply, falling forward to rest all her weight on her elbows and drawing a deep breath of night air into her starved lungs. Her throat still scalded with evidence of his chokehold on her, and she brought a trembling hand to her neck. Through the delicate lace of her gloves Christine felt the indentations left by his powerful hand marring the smooth skin of her throat.

A cold wind off the Thames blew across the balcony, whipping her hair and shreds of torn lace across her face. Even before Christine looked up and saw that Erik had vanished into the black night, she knew that she was alone.

* * *

Joseph smiled at Meg, enjoying the look of utter delight in her bright eyes as he merrily twirled her in the middle of the dance floor. Around them, the gay crowd blended into a blur of vibrant silks and laughter. Meg's cheeks were a blushing red, both from fine wine and the exertion of dancing. "I hope Christine is having as much fun as we are," he said absently, relishing the curves of her tiny waist against his hand.

He had no sooner finished his statement when Meg froze in his arms, eyes instantly wide and all the blood draining from her cheeks. "Where is Christine?" she said, her voice high with anxiety. Joseph shook his head, confused at her inexplicably reaction. The fear in her bright eyes was obvious.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, drawing her closer to him amidst the frenzy of dancing couples. Her body trembled under his hands.

"I don't know," Meg said. The terror in her voice filled him with dread and he drew closer, only to have her pull away from his embrace. Face ashen, she turned from him and began to hurry through the maze of dancers around her. Joseph paused only a moment before tearing after her.

* * *

Erik ran through the dark streets, bitter tears pouring from his bright eyes. He could still hear the sound of the grand ball behind him, mocking him with echoes of cheery music and laughter. He sprinted on, barely aware of where he ran.

Soon the sounds of the party faded into an eerie silence, uninterrupted but for the ringing sounds of his rapid footfalls on the cobblestone street. A fierce, cold wind swept down the narrow avenue, almost tearing the mask from his tear-stained face. The gust howled in his ears and he staggered to a stop, a violently shaking hand held to the leather of his white façade. Erik held his other hand out before him, his quivering fingers cloaked in fine black cloth. He stared at his hand in disgust. He could still feel the frenzied pulse of her heart in his palm – still feel the soft skin of her neck under his fingers. And in his mind, he could still see the panic that coursed through her brilliant eyes as she fell to her knees before him, struggling to breath despite the powerful grip of his hand. Tears running down his ruined visage, Erik slowly curled his shaking fingers into a tight, black fist.

A ragged, inhuman sound rose in his throat, and he whirled, slamming his hand into the uncompromising surface of the nearest stone-wrought wall. Erik did not flinch at the sound – a sickening crack of bones. His breath pluming about his head in white clouds, Erik dropped his unbroken hand from his face, clasped the ravaged hand to his chest, and resumed his frantic pace.

He felt no physical pain – only a dull throb in his broken fingers. But in his tortured heart, Erik felt a sharp agony the likes of which he had never known or thought to exist. The night was pitch black and he ran blindly, breathing in ragged gulps of frigid air.

_You fool. Don't you yet know that I love you?_

Her voice echoed in his ears; he could her nothing but the sound of the words leaping off her tongue, see nothing but the shape of her bloodless lips as she formed the words, feel nothing but the vibration of the words in her throat, beneath the tightening pressure of his hand. _Christine._

It was not long before Erik found himself at the stoop of his Adelphi apartment – he barely remembered how he had gotten there. His ruined hand throbbed, numb and bland compared to the stabbing pain in his chest. "I will never play music again," he thought, strangely unperturbed despite the gravity of the realization. Clumsily, Erik used his left hand to unlock the door and stumbled into his dark apartment, broken hand still held to his silken chest.

_You fool. Don't you yet know that I love you?_

Her sweet voice still echoed, even in the heavy silence of the empty flat. She had said it once before, but that moment seemed long years past. Erik had swallowed that memory long ago, burying it beneath layers of numbing rage. But now, Christine had flung those stinging words at him again, shattering his artifices and crumbling what little defense he had. And what hope, what longing, he had managed to push aside coursed back into his veins, singing her words in one deafening chorus: "Don't you know I love you?" The mere memory of her words seemed to slice through Erik's ribs and pierce his foolish heart. "It is a lie," he whispered, clutching his unbroken hand to his chest. Then, louder, "It is a lie!"

Erik savagely tore the mask from his horrific face and threw it across the room with all the power he had in him. It collided with the entryway mirror in a violent crash and the glass instantly shattered, flinging blinking shards of mirror all over the room. The white mask fell to the floor among the ruined mirror, where it stared up at him with its one dark, empty eye. Erik screamed at it, twisted face disfigured further by agony and desperation. "IT IS A LIE!"

The unflinching façade stared up at him from the glass-littered carpet, mocking him with its sinister expression. Even in its silence it whispered to him: "Who could love a monster?"

* * *

Gathering her voluminous skirts in her hands, Christine sprinted from the empty balcony, barely sure of where she was going or what she intended to do. She clasped one hand to the raw flesh of her throat, already certain that she wore a gruesome necklace of startling bruises. A gust of wind followed her into the ballroom and pulled at her hair, as if nature itself called her into the night. Barely slowing, Christine looked back over her shoulder, petrified she would see Erik in the doorway, dangling from the end of the Punjab lasso. Her heart whispered fears to her that she could barely comprehend. But the doorway was empty but for the star-spangled night sky.

Suddenly, Christine found herself in the midst of a jarring collision, her body tangled with that of another luxuriously dressed young lady. They both fell to the ground with a resounding crash, heads spinning and ribs aching. Christine rounded on the girl, ready to angrily reproach her, and stopped. Meg stared back at her with wide blue eyes, mouth gaping slightly and face unusually pallid.

"Where have you been?" Meg cried, eyes raking over Christine and taking in both the ghostly complexion of her friend's skin and the wretched state of her elegant ensemble. Bits of torn veil fell across Christine's bloodless complexion, adding to the astounding disarray of her appearance.

"Where is Joseph?" Christine demanded, ignoring both the horrified expression on Meg's honest face and the frantic concern in her voice.

Meg shook her head dumbly, eyes lingering on her old friend's neck. The skin beneath Christine's lacy fingers appeared inflamed – marred even. "I – Christine, what happened to you neck?"

"Vicomtess! There you are!" Joseph stumbled from the crowd, staring down at the two disheveled women on the floor. He leaned over and offered a hand to both Christine and Meg and righted them as easily as if they had been made of air.

"Joseph, you must tell me where Monsieur Claudin lives," Christine said forcefully, grasping the young man's hand in a painful grip. "Now." He blinked at her in stunned silence, mouth gaping slightly. "NOW!" she snarled, reaching out to take him roughly by the collar and exposing what she had sought to conceal.

"Christine!" Meg gasped, completely aghast. Her eyes suddenly fell on the hideous, darkening bruises discoloring the Vicomtess's pale throat and stumbled back, involuntarily letting out something akin to a muffled scream.

Joseph stuttered in shock, barely able to articulate in the face of Christine's inexplicable intensity. He mouthed wordlessly, staring at the seething woman he had only known as a reserved, solemn widow. She shook him by the fabric of his elegant cravat, staring him down with her blazing eyes. The Vicomtess hissed, low and dangerous: "Tell me NOW."

"The – The Adelphi," he stammered. "He lives at The Adelphi!" In the blink of an eye Christine had released him from her iron grip and raced off through the morass of dancing couples. Meg grabbed Joseph's hand, squeezing it tightly as she stared after her friend with horror etched into her lovely countenance.

Christine raced down the marble staircase, not pausing to wait for the fine ladies and gentlemen ascending the steps to move aside. They yelled after her, cursing, but she did not hear them. Her ears resonated only with the deafening thunder of her heartbeat. Two dapper portiers frantically swung open the heavy front doors for Christine just in time, leaning out the doorway to stare after her as if she was a madwoman.

"Sir! The Adelphi, please!" she yelled in heavily accented English, throwing herself into the first carriage she saw. She did not wait for the driver's reply and shut the carriage door, baring herself against the frigid air and his plausible refusal. After a slight pause, the sound of iron horseshoes on the cobblestones rang in the street and the buggy jolted to a start. Christine threw open the window flap and bellowed into the night air, "GO! AS FAST AS YOU CAN!" Again, there was a pause, but then the carriage jolted and the grand buildings alongside the road began to whip by in a dark blur.

It was only a few anxious minutes before the carriage skidded to a stop, bouncing over the raised cobblestones. Christine shot out of the coach before it had fully stopped and threw the entire contents of her purse over her shoulder, yelling, "Merci, Monsieur!" Behind her, the coach driver let out a cry of delight and fell from the seat to scramble about the cobbles, feverishly gathering the coins in his bare hands.

* * *

He held shard of glass against the tender flesh of his neck, wincing as each breath he took drove the serrated edge into the skin, in and out. The mask regarded him from the floor, waiting in silence for Erik to be defeated by the immense guilt feeding his mad desire for death.

"I do not deserve to live," he thought numbly, applying more pressure to the ragged glass at his neck. His broken hand lay curled on the floor at his side, cradled in a nest of glinting debris. The torn knuckles of his hand bled steadily, coloring his skin and the pieces of mirror beneath it an alien crimson. Erik imagined that the mirror shard he held to his throat was reflecting the hideous terrain of his unmasked face, mocking him even as he pondered the end of his twisted life.

"She will be rid of you at last," he whispered, his angelic voice cracking and breaking with sobs. "She'll be safe." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out his memories of her. But it was to no avail. In Erik's mind, Her beautiful body slid beneath his trembling hands before all of Parisian society, and she pressed against him onstage, longing audible in her sweet voice. Her perfect lips sought his in the resonant darkness of a cave, filling him with a painful hope he had never felt before. Her fingertips caressed his palm as she pressed the diamond wedding ring into his hand, refusing him only minutes after she had drawn his mouth against her lips. He could hear her voice echoing over the vast underground lake, pleading with him to appear.

_ Angel of Music, guide and guardian_

_ Grant to me your glory!_

_ Angel of Music, hide no longer,_

_ Come to me, strange Angel!_

She turned back to face him, dark eyes seeking his even as she escaped in the arms of her handsome hero, her fiancé. She lay before him, asleep in the dark, sweat-soaked by fever and twisted in her luxurious sheets, moaning his name in terror. Her voice rang through the burnt out carcass of the Opera Populaire, shattering the heavy silence that had hung there in her long absence, drawing him closer, closer, until finally, his eyes found her. She appeared at the entry of the Giry kitchen, slender form clothed only in the airy vestiges of her nightgown. She whispered to him in the shadows of his room, voice hoarse with illness. _I love you._ Christine wrenched his lips down to meet hers, roughly tearing his flesh and maybe her own as she unleashed upon him a desperation, a longing he could not comprehend. In his mind, she knelt before him, throat pulsing beneath the pressure of his hands, slowly choking to death. In his mind, he could not escape her – he never could.

Endless tears ran freely down his cheeks, the smooth and the ravaged, tracing rivers down his monstrous face. He imagined that the jagged glass pressed against the skin of his throat was a powerful hand, bearing down and choking the life from his tortured body. The soft flesh beneath the shard began to break, loosing a small stream of scarlet blood. Erik could feel no pain – his mind was elsewhere, far from the dark entry of his apartment in a city that was not his home. Instead, he resided in his memories of Christine, good or bad.

"I love you," Erik whispered, preparing to drive the shard of glass through the flesh of his throat, effectively ending an agonizing life of misery and madness. And, trembling, he tightened his grip on the piece of mirror, eyes closed and mind clear except for the echo of her name. _Christine…_

"Don't you dare." Erik froze, the shard poised to tear his life from him at any moment. A gust of frigid wind swept through the open door, rifling through his dark hair. Opening his eyes, he dropped his hand from his throat and turned slowly to see who he already knew in his heart to be there, standing behind him.

Stray locks of Christine's dark hair whipped across her face, the rich curls enlivened by the wind. Her face was impossibly pale, but her eyes sparked at him, the bright pupils flickering with an emotion he could not name. She was dressed like a widow, shrouded in the colorless tones of mourning, but he could find no sorrow in her bloodless face. Instead, her graceful features were undeniably _vibrant_, as if a fire coursed through her veins and poured out of her dark eyes. He had never seen such an expression on Christine's beautiful visage, nor felt the overpowering strength that now emanated from her presence. She stood over him, fists clenched at her sides, and repeated in a soft, dangerous tone, "Don't you _dare_."

For a tense moment the Phantom was stunned silent, unable to comprehend her presence in his apartment. His wild eyes fell to her neck, and he gasped aloud, hissing as if he had been burned. The perfect skin of her throat was discolored with angry, violent bruises. She wore them like a hideous necklace, and he felt his chest constrict as he realized that their source was undeniable. The dark bruises marring her throat formed the likeness of a long fingered hand, as if he had simply plunged his hand in tar and left a handprint on her alabaster flesh. Erik shuddered, disgusted. Christine stared at him steadily, face tense as he surveyed the extent of the damage he had wrought upon her. A fierce gust of wind tore into the room, blowing the papers from his writing desk and stinging against the skin of his bare face.

Erik roared, suddenly realizing that the face Christine gazed at so steadily was unmasked; he was exposed to her, fully. He twisted his body from her prying eyes and threw himself at the mask, pieces of broken mirror cracking beneath his knees and hands. He grasped the mask with a feverish, trembling hand and desperately covered his hideous deformity, furious that she had seen – that he had neglected to realize that she could see. And, like an animal trapped by a hunter, he lashed out at her.

"What are you doing in my house?" he bellowed, staggering to his feet. "Are you mad? Do you not know what I could do?"

"Do not yell at me as if I am a mere child! What right have you to rebuke me, you who have always deceived me, always lied?" she spat, flinging every word at him as she would a slap. Erik smiled cruelly, mouth twisting but eyes dark and humorless.

"I lied? I was the deceiver? Damn you! How many times have you abandoned me to run back to that silly boy? That pretty little boy. How many times, Christine?" Erik stopped, unable to speak as angry tears filled his eyes and choked him. He dreaded her reply, and yet, he longed for it – longed for the spitting criticism, the cruel admission that yes, she was disgusted by his twisted face, repulsed by what lay under his unflinching façade.

But she said nothing at all. Christine looked away and stared at the floor. To his amazement, he thought he saw her delicate chin quiver, as if she were on the verge of tears. "How can you cry before me?" he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. She did not respond. Erik took a step forward and hissed, "Let me be. Go home. Go home to your handsome prince, Vicomtess."

"STOP IT!" Her scream rang throughout the apartment and Erik flinched as the painful sound ripped through him. "Stop. Raoul is dead, Erik, and though you may hate him, do not mock him so in my presence. He is _dead." _Christine was shaking visibly now and she stared at him from beneath the locks of her luxurious hair, tears in her scathing eyes. Erik felt as if her words had torn the air from his lungs. He was petrified by shock, and for a moment, it almost seemed his heart had stopped beating within his chest.

"What did you say?" he said softly.

"The Vicomte de Chagny died months ago. I received word of his condition while at your home in Paris, and I left to care for him." Christine's face was clouded with the pain of the memory and tears had begun to run freely down her cheeks. "He died in my arms."

Erik could do nothing but stare at her. His mind, meanwhile, was racing. "What does this mean?" he thought, scarcely comprehending what he had heard. The information was too much – too unexpected. And suddenly he was overwhelmed; if she had left to care for her dying husband, she had not left on a whim. She had not run back to the embrace of her hero, leaving the monstrous Phantom to loneliness and despair. He was defeated. What could be said to this woman? What could he possibly say? Her crime against him was blameless – not a crime at all.

"I – I tried to go back to see you. But you had returned, only to leave. You left," she choked. "You _left." _His heart wrenched at the suffering audible in her sweet voice – the suffering that he, in his foolishness, had only intensified. She had come back to find him and he had vanished, had fled from Paris and all the memories he had of that place. But he had been unable to forget any of it, any instant of her. And he had hated her for it.

Christine's eyes lingered on the bloody shard of mirror that Erik grasped tightly in his fist. "And now you try to leave me again." She looked up and met his gaze, trembling. Erik squeezed the jagged edges of the glass, breaking the skin of his palm and savoring the small burst of pain it rewarded him with. It would have been easy. He would have died angry and alone, but it would have been over. One swift stroke of the broken glass across his throat, and a lifetime of ridicule would have been cut short. Christine took a step forward and reached out with one trembling hand to take his fist in her palm. Erik found he could not retreat. Her teary eyes pleaded with him, and once he had felt the soft caress of her fingertips on his skin he could scarcely breathe, let alone move. With her other hand she carefully pried his fingers apart, frowning as she saw blood on his palm. The bloodied shard of mirror fell from his hand and shattered across the hardwood floor, joining the millions of other pieces of broken glass that already lay there. Christine did not release his hand. She stared down at it, studying it as a scientist might the fresh carcass of a dead bird. Erik found he could not draw a breath, nor think of anything but the pressure of her slender hands against the back of his hand.

Finally, he could not help but say, "You must forgive me." Christine smiled slightly, although she did not look up to meet his eyes. She whispered, so softly that Erik could barely hear her, "I already have," and pressed her lips against the bloodied palm of his hand.


	19. Fierté Blessée

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes **

**Chapter Nineteen: Fierté Blessée**

Erik drew a sharp, shaky breath at the sensation. Her lips were unbearably soft and even worse, familiar, although they touched only the dirty skin of his palm. He curled his fingers as though he might hold her kiss in his hand, as one does a gift. Christine pulled away slowly, not raising her eyes to look at him. Instead, she reached out, quivering, to take his other hand.

Stunned both by the pain and the feeling of her hand on his broken skin, he cried out and snatched his shattered hand to his chest. Christine gasped, startled by the ragged sound, and her eyes snapped up to meet his, wide and dark – haunting. "What – Erik, what is it?" Suddenly ashamed, the Phantom covered his shattered appendage with the bloodied fingers of his left hand, shielding it from her gaze like a child. Christine's elegant brows knit together and concern lined her face, making her appear decades older, if only for a brief moment. "What have you done?" she said softly, coaxing. Erik moved to turn from her but she stepped forward and put a gentle hand on his sleeve. "Please," Christine whispered, "do not turn from me." Something in her sweet voice rendered him utterly defenseless, and Erik relented, dropping his defenses to let her survey the grievous ill he had done himself.

Her dark eyes swept over the terrain of his injury, her focused expression revealing little of her thoughts. She sighed, glancing up at him with troubled eyes. "We must fix this. I will bind it as best I can and you will not try to stop me." Christine spoke in a clearly no-nonsense tone, surprising him. And Erik wondered, perhaps for the first time, what, in the years between their past and their present, had changed in them both. He stared at her then, noting that the last minute's tears still stained her striking face. But her bottomless eyes held little of the anger or sorrow that they had; they were sad, but they were not the same.

Erik nodded. When he spoke, he found his voice hoarse and small, as if it had withered away in conjunction with his violent rage. "Oui. There is cloth in the kitchen." He weakly gestured towards the lightless doorway, careful to use his undamaged hand. When Christine brushed past him, he almost swooned as the sweet scent of midsummer roses saturated the air he breathed. Erik followed her, almost trembling as powerful and irrepressible hope once again weighed upon his aching heart.

As they entered the dark kitchen, Erik numbly indicated where Christine might find some scraps of cloth with which to bind his injury. She nodded, and said in a voice reminiscent of Madame Giry's domineering tone, "Sit." Erik took a seat at the kitchen table, feeling both sheltered and strangely confined by the darkness of the room. Although the lack of light provided a welcome deterrent for Christine's sharp eyes, it made it quite impossible to see her as clearly as he would like. And this made him feel vulnerable – perhaps as vulnerable as he felt when deprived of his customary façade. He could not read her in the darkness, and it frightened him. Suddenly a match burst into flame, shattering the blackness of the kitchen. Christine proceeded to light the various lamps and candles scattered throughout the room, quickly bathing the modest kitchen in a warm glow. Erik struggled between relief and horror; now he could see her, but she could also see him in all his hideous glory, for he feared no mask could conceal the grotesque nature of his appearance. But she never turned to look at him, instead busying herself with the meager medical supplies she could find in the near-empty cabinets.

"Now," she said softly, pausing with a damp cloth in one hand, "this is going to hurt." Erik frowned, opening his mouth to ask what exactly she was planning to do.

And all at once Christine was holding his wounded hand, as delicately as if it were made of glass. Erik almost gasped aloud, barely able to stifle the sound as her fingertips grazed his shattered knuckles, flitting over torn flesh and bloody skin. He could not quiet his reaction when she pressed the damp cloth to the wound and let out a low, pained hiss of breath. She was on her knees before him, and glanced up to meet his eyes. For a terrifying moment, Erik saw his hands about her bruised throat and he shuddered in disgust, looking away. She returned to wiping the dried blood from his fingers, her face hidden beneath a cascade of dark curls and a few lacy wisps of her torn veil. Erik had the overwhelming urge to reach out with his right hand and brush the satin curtain of locks from her face, but he dismissed the impulse as quickly as it had sprung in him and clenched his right hand into a tight fist at his side.

"You should see a doctor," Christine said gently, once the layers of dried blood had been soaked away, revealing the considerable damage beneath. He prickled at the idea of it – doctors, all staring at his mask with prying eyes. No, it would not do.

"No, and I will not go to one," he said firmly. Christine put down his hand, spread her palms on the kitchen floor, and looked at him with blatant disapproval in her dark eyes.

"I can only bind your hand, Erik. I can do nothing for the breaks." He could hear the pleading in her voice and though his heart beat faster for it, he tried his best to hold his ground.

"Then they will just have to mend themselves." He said it in such a way that he hoped would indicate the uselessness of appeal, knowing that if she were to truly plead with him, he would be helpless to refuse her. And the consequences would certainly be horrendous. Her eyes flared, the rich brown sparking with gold.

"You would just neglect yourself? Don't you care at all?" Erik drew back, eyes wide beneath the white mask. He could hear tears in her voice, rough and on the verge of overtaking her. He could see them in her dark eyes. Christine cried out at him, suddenly bringing into sharp focus the situation he now found himself in. "You stubborn fool, you may never play again! Not the piano, the organ, the violin, or whatever other instruments you can secretly play! Dear God, Erik, you can't say that doesn't _matter!_"

Something inside him broke, shattered, and he leapt to his feet, venom at his lips before he could even attempt to swallow his bitterness. "Why should it matter to you?" Christine's eyes went hard and she slowly rose until she stood opposite him, staring up at him from her considerably lesser stature. The next thing Erik felt was the shocking sensation of Christine's hand colliding with his exposed cheek – a stinging, reflexive slap. He instinctively clapped his uninjured right hand to his mask, desperate not to be exposed before her. Christine glared up at him, pale cheeks tinged with an angry blush.

"Why must you be this way? Why?" she cried, advancing on him until she had drawn so close that he could feel the caress of her warm breath on his smarting cheek.

"You, of all people, should know better than most why I am the way I am, Vicomtess," he hissed, the acidity of his words twisting his noble lips into a cruel sneer. Erik stared at her coldly, unbroken hand still held protectively over his sinister façade. He sang in a dark, wry tone,

_ It is in my soul that the true distortion lies…_

Christine flinched, a sharp jolt running up her spine. When, years ago, he had serenaded her in the resonant depths of the Opera Populaire the result had always heart wrenching, but now his voice was laced with spite, ugly with malice. He threw her own pitiless words at her, and they stung. Erik's lips twisted further, distorting the unearthly beauty of his face with a contemptuous snarl that the expressionless mask could not obscure. He turned from her, making a low, exhausted sound in the back of his throat. "Go. There is nothing you can do to fix this," he said disgustedly, tone hollow compared to the rancor he had spat at her only moments before. She could only see the unmarred half of his visage, which now glowed red with the evidence of her petty slap. Something in her chest knotted and unknotted, and Christine found she had to employ every scrap of her willpower not to reach out and stroke the inflamed skin of his bare cheek. She tapped her foot nervously beneath her skirts, both ashamed of her outburst and enraged by his dismissive air. "If I leave this kitchen I will torture myself for the rest of my life," she thought suddenly, knowing as soon as the notion occurred to her that it was unhappily and undeniably true. Christine could not leave; to surrender to Erik's cold command would only reward her with years of regret, for she knew beyond doubt that he would disappear without a trace, vanishing into the shadows of the world and recesses of society, where she would never find him. And that would simply not satisfy the Vicomtess de Chagny. In fact, it would likely kill her.

"No, Erik. I will not go," Christine said firmly, her brow furrowing with determination and her graceful hands curling into tight fists in the luxurious folds of her dark gown. She saw his jaw go tight – a slightest change of the muscles in his face that most would never detect, but she read as easily as if he had turned bright red and started roaring expletives. Anger radiated off of him, making the small room close in about them – a heavy suffocation. "You cannot make me. And I will do my best to wrap your hand, whether or not you think it will do any good." She picked up a scrap of cloth and reached out to place her hand on his shoulder, feeling tense muscles beneath the veneer of the fine fabric that made up his coat.

Erik struggled to make sense of his situation, though the mere weight of her hand on his shoulder managed to cloud his mind and slow his wits. He knew that he was angry, yes, but beneath that burned a stronger, more terrifying emotion. His body ached with hope – the same toxic, suffocating hope that had poisoned his senses and driven him mad but a few years before. And when she refused to leave him, his heart leapt and his pride was pricked. "What right has she to linger in my presence, in my life?" Erik thought, trying to infuse the reflection with bitterness, but failing. His anger was half-hearted at best – his resentment false. He longed for her presence, her touch. And she offered it willingly, making him tremble until he thought he would collapse in upon himself. Her fingertips lingered on his shoulder, and the prolonged if slight contact was sweet agony. And Erik knew that he was ultimately powerless. He sat in the chair, careful not to meet her eyes.

Christine stood still for a moment, surprised. Erik had surrendered. Her hand dropped from his shoulder and she knelt before him. With slow, careful movements, she took his wounded hand in her fingers, using her other hand to wrap his palm and knuckles in cloth. He barely winced, although the process was excruciatingly painful; he was barely aware of anything but the sensation of her fingertips dancing across the torn surface of his skin.

Christine could scarcely breathe. She could feel his eyes on her as she bent her head over her work, tightly wrapping his ravaged flesh in the worn cotton he had provided her with. She tried not to imagine the revulsion in his eyes – the disdain he had so long harbored for her. Christine was sure that somewhere in that sea of anger and resentment he still loved her, but it was so hard to see now. Erik's fingers trembled beneath her touch, and she almost drew away when she imagined the rage fueling their quivering motion. But she did not, for the sight of his broken hand frightened her more than his violent furies ever could. In the strange indentations beneath his skin, the distortion of his knuckles and torn fingers, she saw the death of his music. His music, which had possessed her soul from the first moment – the music that had entranced her in the lonely nights of her childhood and tortured her in the empty years since she had left the Opera Populaire. It was in his music that she had found her love for him.

As she worked, the broken bones of his hand disappeared beneath layers of cloth, but the mere sight of his bandaged fingers horrified her. Christine tried to slow the panicked beat of her heart. She hurried her work, barely able to stand both the heady, agonizing delight of the stolen contact between them and the torture of seeing the ruin of his elegant hand. When she was at last finished, she almost threw his hand from her, desperate to somehow kill the sharp ache in her chest. But the moment his long fingers slipped from her grasp she missed them, and if anything, the pain in her heart worsened until she found she could barely draw a breath. Christine rose, trying hard not to look up and meet the Phantom's intense eyes. Overwhelmed both by exhaustion and emotion, she swayed precariously, hardly able to keep her balance. She hadn't slept in days, her mind and body kept awake both by plaguing hope and nervous hysteria. Sleep evaded her, slipping through her slender fingers like the wispy smoke of a candle in the dark.

Erik saw her stagger and before he could so much as consider the repercussions of his actions he was on his feet, his right arm wrapped about her slender waist. Christine stumbled into the solid wall of his chest, reeling. Her face rested in the elegant fabric of his waistcoat and her dark hair cascaded over his right hand. Erik froze, stunned by the difficult position in which he know found himself. He was holding her. "My God," he thought, catching himself before he allowed the words to slip off his tongue. Her arms were wrapped about his waist, her fingertips barely trembling against the cloth of his coat. He could feel the warmth of her breath through his waistcoat, feel the rise and fall of her chest against his ribs. He could feel the hard whalebones of her corset and feel the pulse of her body beneath. Erik's vision quickly blurred, his eyes filling with saline tears whose presence he could not deter.

Something deep within him stirred, and he shuddered at the sweet delight of it. With the smell of roses filling his lungs, Erik remembered pleasure. Not that he had truly known it, but there had been moments, few and far between, in which he had been given a taste of a thing so dizzying and raw that his thirst for it had sometimes driven him to a point beyond madness. And he ached at the memory of the kisses that he and Christine had shared, one frightening and new, one desperate and full of yearning, and one angry and rough. His body screamed for another kiss, just one, while she was here and within his very grasp. He felt the gentle trembling of her fingers against his back and remembered how the curve of her waist had felt beneath his palms that night at the Opera Populaire, his yearning caught in the blinding lights of the stage.

Pressed against the fine cloth of his waistcoat, Christine breathed in Erik's scent – an aroma rich and unlike any she had ever known. Her cheek rose and fell with the swell of his chest as he breathed, and deeper within she could hear the beat of his heart, its rhythm erratic and fast, like running footsteps or the drumming of rain. She knew that should Erik listen, he would find that her own feverish heart sounded much the same.

They remained there in their strange half-embrace, still and afraid, for seconds that seemed more like hours. "She stays in my arms for fear of angering me," Erik thought bitterly, cringing when he imagined the monster she thought him to be. The monster he was. The tears that had clouded his vision began to run down his right cheek, beneath his anonymous mask. He mused, his thoughts acrid and sharp with pain, "You are a fool to think of the stolen moments between you, a fool to even hope. No woman would kiss you now, nor touch you." Breathing in the intoxicating, heady scent of Christine's satin curls, Erik shuddered at the coldness of his memories. "How sad are the malformed, broken creatures of this world, that they should even dare to think of angels."

Christine could not help but lean into him, sinking into the warmth of his body and strange familiarity of his scent. She was just spreading her palms against the muscles of his back when Erik stiffened beneath her touch, turning what had been lush velvet into uncompromising stone. Her tumble into Erik's arms had turned from an accidental collision to something rather like a hesitant embrace, but it was now transforming into an increasingly tense tangle of limbs and awkward contact. Christine pressed her hands against the smooth material of Erik's coat, desperately trying to hold onto the intimate nature of what had momentarily seemed a hug. Erik's body did not soften; holding him was akin to trying to hug a wall of granite.

Erik struggled for control. All he could hear were the eerie echoes of the past, resonant and plaguing in their constancy.

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_

He froze as he felt Christine's hand spread over his back, her fingers sliding over his back through a relatively thin layer of fabric. His loose shirt and waistcoat provided little defense, and even his coat failed to dull the sensation of her slender fingers splaying across the width of his back. Erik closed his eyes for a moment, vying with the fierce and foolish pleas singing out within him. He felt her chest expand against him, quivering, as if she were drawing a breath to fuel her tongue, and his bright eyes snapped open.

Abruptly, Erik tore himself from Christine's embrace, still supporting her with his arm but no longer holding her to his body. He deftly spun her into the kitchen chair he had previously occupied, maximizing his efficiency while minimizing the physical contact between them. Christine felt as if she had momentarily been caught in a small whirlwind, only to be tossed out after a few dizzying seconds. She grasped her knees through the billowing fabric of her dark skirts, reeling. The bout of unsteadiness that had propelled her into Erik's grasp made her head spin, although she suspected that it was the unexpected embrace that had been born from her dizziness as much as the dizziness itself that was now fueling her feeling of disorientation. She stared down at her pale hands, her shaking fingers buried in yards of somberly hued cloth, and she found herself suddenly terrified to look up and see the man who had just deposited her in her seat.

Erik stood over Christine, motionlessness but for his hands, which shook at his sides.

"I – I am sorry," he stammered, his front of cold dignity falling completely to pieces. He didn't meet her eyes, and she didn't look up to find his. He repeated, softly, "Forgive me."

"It was my fault," she replied, barely audible. Erik could feel his tears clinging to the mangled skin beneath his mask, and though he knew Christine would not see them, he shuddered.

"No, not at all. It was not your fault," Erik said quietly. In his mind, Erik saw himself reach out to touch her. He gently lifted her face and their eyes met, and he leaned in slowly, ever so slowly. The fantasy was so painfully plausible – all he had to do was reach out and slide his fingers beneath her chin. But there, in the pale skin of her neck, he knew he would see the dark bruises that had been born of his mangled hand, and Erik knew he could not bring himself to touch her. He resisted the urge to reach for her, but could not help but finally look down upon her. Christine's head was hung low, her dark curls cascading over her face – a luscious veil. Her lithe fingers were buried in the fabric of her skirts, clinging to the cloth as someone drowning would to the first buoy they came upon.

She shifted, as if she could feel his gaze. Christine's hands found one another in the sea of skirts and her fingers wove together seamlessly, white-knuckled and shaking. Erik's eyes went wide when he realized that her narrow shoulders were trembling as well, as if she were crying beneath that veil of curls. He looked away, ashamed somehow, as if he had somehow trespassed.

"Erik, I – I am very tired. I wonder, may I…" Christine trailed off, her voice small and weak before it fell to silence. Erik waited, afraid of what she might say. The Vicomtess drew a shaky breath and continued in a voice so weak he had to strain to hear her at all. "May I sleep here tonight?"

An unfamiliar warmth awoke in the extremities of his body – his fingertips and toes – and began to spread throughout him, burning like wildfire. Had his voice not been stripped from him by shock, Erik was sure he would have sworn aloud. _Mon Dieu._ Certainly, his life had had its share of unexpected, unprecedented moments. Living as the dreaded Phantom of the Opera had ensured that. Indeed, living with the hideous and loathed face of a demon had ensured that. Despite the peculiarity of his life, there had been words - sentences that Erik had expected never to hear, however long he was destined to suffer on. "May I sleep here tonight?" certainly fell within the category of words he had never expected to hear in conjunction. And he had never imagined that he would hear those words slide through the luscious lips of his _Christine._ Even in his desperate dreams, he had never strayed that far into dizzying fantasy. But his ears did not betray him, and her barely audible request echoed in his mind, the sound of her voice frightening in its improbable reality.

Discouraged by Erik's silence, Christine felt the tears that had threatened her eyes begin to well until they overwhelmed her gaze and began to cling, crystalline, in her dark eyelashes. She swallowed the hoarse sob that rose in her throat and raised a shaking hand to her eyes, desperate to brush away any physical evidence of her weeping before Erik looked down and noticed her childish sorrow. Christine felt deeply ashamed; how could she have asked to stay? What foolishness, what apparent impropriety. "Idiot," she thought acidly, loathing herself through and through. She was exhausted, but no exhaustion would be enough to warrant such a brazen proposition. A widow begging to stay the night in the house of an unmarried man? "Madame Giry would die of consternation," Christine thought, trying hard not to be amused by the idea.

For all her innocent intent, Christine could not deny the flickers of wantonness alive in her mind. This was, after all, Erik. Only moments before he had held her, purpose aside, and she had felt the heady warmth radiate from his body, and wished that they could share more than mere temperature between them. Fierce guilt boiled within her; how few months had it been since she had watched Raoul die? And yet, she lived on, alone but for the memory of an angelic man she had once known and never met the likes of again. And now that she had finally, finally found him and was finally in his arms, could she be blamed for the erratic beating of her heart or the untamed nature of her thoughts?

Erik coughed roughly, piercing the choking depths of anxiety that Christine had been quickly suffocating in. No longer able to help herself, Christine raised her dark eyes to Erik's face. He did not meet her gaze; he stared off into the corners of the kitchen, the blue of his eyes intensely bright. He would not look at her, and she was ashamed.

"Erik… I am sorry. I should not have asked," she said, her quiet voice almost giving way to the wracking sobs that quaked in her chest and threatened to climb her throat. He looked at her then, impossibly blue eyes wide and surprised, as if he had not been expecting her voice. As if he had forgotten she was there at all. The hardness in his gaze momentarily disappeared, and through the mask, Christine could almost imagine what he had looked like as a child, afraid but yet untainted by the innumerable cruelties the world had surely rewarded him with from birth. It was almost as if in his eyes she were seeing… _joy_. Erik blinked suddenly, and the moment ended abruptly. The coldness returned to his eyes, turning the alien hue of his irises to an icy gray-blue and chasing away what shadow of happiness Christine had thought she might have seen there.

"No, you are on the verge of collapse. It would be cruel of me to turn you out on the streets now," Erik said coolly, injecting the word "cruel" with a bite of venom as it passed through his lips. "Consider it payment for your… aid," he added slowly, glancing at his bandaged left hand with an emotionless face. Erik's frigid gaze imprisoned Christine and she felt herself falling, drowning in the impossibly cold depths of his eyes. They seethed with malice and anger, bright bubbles of blue and gray bursting across the surface of his vision. She strained to see the love she knew to be there – knew existed beyond the shadow of a doubt, and did not find it. And finally, he looked away.

"I shall prepare a room," Erik said with as little emotion as he could, struggling to contain the hope that now coursed rampant and unchecked throughout his body. He could not let her see, could not let her know his vulnerability. For if she knew, what then? She could break him - shatter him as she had so expertly only a few years prior. He had never recovered. And Erik knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he would not survive another abandonment.


	20. Dialogue

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty: Dialogue**

"Erik, stop." He was walking away when it happened. Her voice was so low he barely heard her say it. "Just stop." And he did. It felt as if the heart within his chest had ceased its incessant, violent beating. He could not turn to face her. He would not. He couldn't bear to know that her voice had been simply a projection of his feverish mind.

"I can't do this anymore," Christine said softly, and Erik knew it was real. He heard the rustle of her voluminous skirts and knew that she was standing behind him – a living, bleeding figment of his past. A gleeful specter. He could hear her breathe, the nervous flutter in her throat as she drew in gulps of cold air. The candles flickered on all sides of him, and for a moment Erik thought he was in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, standing in his grotto astride the vast underground lake. But she spoke again, and the illusion was shattered.

"Please, stop. Do you remember – you must remember – how we used to talk? We were friends once, strange friends. Oui, I thought you an angel… but we were also friends, I think. Do you remember that?" She was pleading with him; he didn't want to believe it, but the quaver in her voice was undeniable. Christine was begging him, but why? Erik stood motionless, trying to find the will to mobilize his heavy tongue.

"Oui. Yes, I do remember," he replied finally, unable to deny her that small confirmation – unable to deny her anything in the world.

He heard the rustle of her skirts again, as if she had taken a step towards him, and thrill trembled up his spine. The sound was like maple leaves in the autumn, barely clinging to a bare branch as the winter wind tugged at them to fall. It seemed like decades since he had seen leaves – winter was endless, and he was drowning in it. "I miss that. I miss what we had," she whispered, and the words roared in his ears like the deafening sound of a fire. Like the sound of the fire the night the Opera Populaire burnt. Christine took another step forward, almost falling for the trembling in her legs. Her audacity terrified her, but she felt unable to stop. It was as if she had opened a great wound inside her and now the scarlet blood poured forth; she was helpless to stop it. The words fell through her lips. "Why can't we be like we were?"

Erik whipped around to face her. His eyes were dangerous – dark, and she could see emotions tearing through his face without control. The result was terrifying. Christine had always known the Phantom to be closed, controlled, and ruthlessly apathetic. Yes, she had seen him crumble before, which is more than most could say, but as a result, she knew the price of what she saw before her. It was as if the blue of his eyes was the blue of a flame, and it burned her.

"We are not who we were, Christine," he spat, infusing every word that left his lips with all the hope and agony and unstoppable anger that seethed within him. "Would you really have me hiding in the depths of the Opera House, a monster from which you fled? Is that what you want?" Erik was yelling now, his dark hair falling before his eyes and across the terrible plain of his white mask. He had said her name, finally, and it had stung. He said it like a curse. Christine dug her fists against her sides and yelled back, throwing every bit of strength she had into the power of one word.

"STOP." The look on her face alone would have silenced Erik, had she not stunned him into obedience with the ferocity with which she bellowed at him. He stopped speaking mid-word, and his mouth was left hanging agape slightly, as if he had been frozen. His eyes still burned, flames flickering in a sea of blue.

"Do you truly think that a day goes by – an hour even – during which I do not regret my decision?" Christine fought to keep the tremor from her voice as she watched the blood drain from Erik's already deathly countenance. She watched his chest rise and fall beneath the fine layers of linen, satin, and silk – a breath drawn in and a breath blown out, so slow it was painful to see. And then, watching him, she remembered to breathe. Her question hung in the air between them as Erik stared at her, his face wiped clean of the emotions that had raged on its masked surface only seconds before.

"What did you say?" he finally asked, his deep voice halting and broken. The very air Christine drew into her lungs seemed to sting her, as if the terror that raged within her had poisoned the room as well as her body. She opened her mouth to speak, but found she could not repeat the words. They were too painful.

Something flickered in Erik's eyes. "_What did you say?" _he asked icily, almost whispering. Christine knew in her fingers and in her throat and in her heart that she had to abandon her pride – the very thing she had desperately clung to for years now, delaying and evading guilt. She would stop now, and shame would catch her, color her, and wound her. A man stood before her who she had broken, perhaps beyond repair, and Christine knew she couldn't lie to him for another heartbeat.

"I regretted that choice the moment I made it," she said calmly, as if, when she was alone before a mirror or in a dark room, the words had slid across her lips many times. Her dark eyes begged him to let her continue, and had they not Erik still would have done nothing to stop her. He could not speak with his heart was in his mouth. "How could you not know? It felt as if I were tearing myself apart – as if a part of me was sewn to you, bound, and when I moved from you the stitches ripped through my skin. I turned back; did you see that? You were barely a shadow on the shore but still you were more real than any of the world I fled you for." There were tears on her face, stinging her, but Christine ignored them now. Erik's eyes clung to hers, and she could see the silent plea there, buried in the icy blue of his irises. She looked away, drowning.

"Mon Dieu, had I not been so… small." She spat the word from her beautiful lips with disgust so intense it shocked him. "So weak..." Her expression tortured him; Christine's voice was impossibly calm but her face was wet with tears, her visage painfully pale above the dark bruises marring the skin of her slender neck. Her eyes met his and she said, "Erik, had I not been such a fool I would not have made the decision that I made that night." She stopped then, plunging the room into an impossibly tense silence. Erik could feel the air vibrate around him, ringing and alive. He felt as if he were choking – as if the Punjab lasso was wrapped about his neck in an immovable stranglehold. He could see in her face that she was waiting and he struggled to cling to the last shreds of his pride, his anger. If he let go, he would crumble before her, a supplicant, pleading monster.

"Do you expect to be forgiven?" he asked coldly, trying desperately not to let his eyes come to rest on the glaring bruises decorating her fair throat. Christine looked down, into her trembling hands.

"No." She lifted her dark eyes to his. "Do you?"

Erik winced, despite his best efforts to contain his reaction. Her angry bruises mocked him, so twisted and vibrant against the white marble of her lovely flesh.

* * *

His hands trembled, and beneath his fingers he felt the rough cords of a noose, heard the echoes of his own voice as he roared across the dark lake at Christine, who stood at the shore, incandescent in a white wedding gown. Her face was a mask of terror and he hated her for it – for her purity, her fear, and her unforgettable beauty. Her undeniably perfect beauty. She stared at him as though her were a monstrous creature, a Devil's child. And he didn't disappoint her.

Erik gave the noose a hard tug, tearing the air from Raoul's precious neck. The boy writhed, thrashing like a putrid worm on a sharp metal hook. The Phantom could see the terror in the boy's pale eyes – smell the noxious fear that rose from his perfect form. Erik turned back to Christine only to find her lovely face twisted with horror and disgust. It tortured him – filled his heart with a dark rage.

_You've passed the point of no return!_

He belted the words out, spitting them like stinging venom. Her bright eyes were caught in his gaze and the cruel emotions flashing through her beautiful face scorched him. He saw fear, he saw hatred, and worst of all he saw, still clinging in the shadowed recesses of her eyes, pity. Christine sang back to him, her full lips curling with anger, perhaps revulsion.

_Angel of Music - you deceived me,_

_ I gave you my mind blindly…_

She sounded wounded, as if he had done no less than stab her through the chest, piercing her young heart. Erik desperately cast aside the guilt that threatened his malicious resolve, swallowed the putrid vomit that rose unwanted in his throat. She would not leave him. She could not. Christine was his, and his alone.

"You try my patience – make your choice." Erik saw the shudder pass through her small form and cursed himself. Emotions fought an open war upon her delicate face and Erik found himself staring at her, suddenly amazed by how unbearably _young _she was. Christine looked past him, her eyes seeking Raoul's unblemished face in the shadows against the gate. Erik winced at the adoration in her dark eyes, all of it meant for that foolish boy. Then, she returned her gaze to Erik's bare, demonic face, her expression strained and her rich eyes full of sorrow.

Unexpectedly, she walked forth into the freezing lake, the long white fabric of her wedding gown sending waves across its still surface. Erik fought the urge to stumble backwards, away from this girl he loved so dearly. Christine came towards him with upturned palms, and he balked under the glow of her eyes. They clung to him, helpless and innocent. And, perhaps for the first time, Erik felt in his gut that he was every bit the loathsome monster the cruel world had all colored him to be, from the day his horrifying visage had graced the earth. "What have I done?" he thought, suddenly desperate to run from this dark underworld – from Christine's slender hands and pleading eyes.

_Pitiful creature of darkness,_

_ What kind of life have you known?_

_ God give me courage to show you_

_ You are not alone…_

And all at once, Christine was less than a foot from him, her small, shaking hand sliding his diamond wedding ring over her finger, binding her to him. The frigid water rippled around their feet and the splashing roared in his ears, deafening and unnatural – a beast. Or perhaps it was his raging blood, the feverish pounding of his twisted heart echoing in the alcove behind his ribs. No matter now – he could feel her warm breath on his face and smell the heady, delirious scent of midsummer roses rising from her silken hair.

She looked up from her hands, her face only inches from the monstrosity that was the Phantom's own cursed countenance. There was something in the brown depths of her eyes; what was it? What was it that he saw there? There was no time to search her face – no time at all, for all at once she had covered his mouth with her own.

Christine had sealed his fate then, with her sacrifice. He could _taste_ the pity in her mouth during that first frightened moment, taste her desperation. Her saline tears were in his mouth, his tears on her tongue, and the taste was like nothing that had every graced his palette in so many lonely decades. When she pulled away, the Phantom was crying openly before her, letting loose deep, wracking sobs he could no longer contain. There was less than a hand's breadth between them, and he could feel the malice draining from him – the pus pouring from a great wound within him.

Erik saw sparks of gold bursting in her beautiful eyes - saw the tears that traced crystalline paths down her pale cheeks. She was shaking beneath his hands. And then, without provocation or explanation, her lips were against his once more. But this time, he tasted no pity in her warm mouth. Her slender hand caressed his ravaged cheek, smearing his tears against the scarred and angry skin with a touch so feather-light and kind he almost winced for the agony of it. The world had become so small all of a sudden; the aching, never-ending recesses of the Phantom's shadowy underworld vanished. Raoul, his pale eyes alive with disbelief, disappeared from all recollection. There was only the surreal sensation of her lips against his, her tongue seeking entrance to his mouth, and her hand soft against his hideous face. Fear drove his heart into hysterics, and Erik balked under her, attempting to pull away. Christine held him to her, her lips pleading against his mouth, and he relented, surrendering to her both his body and his heart.

Finally, she released him, pulling away to look into his eyes with light in her face. The light was so bright it seemed to burn him, and he was momentarily blinded by the glow of her rich eyes. His heart surged forward in his chest, the wounded organ alive with a hope so strong he feared he could never deny what he had seen there, swimming in the depths of her eyes. It wasn't pity. It was something more, and the memory of her eyes would be burned into him for the rest of his life, more even than the memory of her lips. Christine destroyed him with that look – that dark, secret emotion glowing from the shadows of her gaze. When he looked at her, he knew that he had lost. Lost his battle with Raoul? Lost his pride? Lost his mind, what left of it he had? No, he had lost everything. He had lost Christine.

_Forget me – forget all of this,_

_ Leave me alone – forget all you've seen._

It was as if the light in her eyes had suddenly extinguished, as if someone had blown out the candle behind her gaze. All at once, her lovely face was dark and empty, eyes sapped of both horror and love. If Erik had never before felt like a murderer before, he felt like one in that moment when her beautiful eyes died, extinguished by the mere sound of his dreaded voice.

_ Go now, don't let them find you._

_ Take the boat – swear to me never to tell_

_ The secrets you know of the angel in hell._

_ Go now, go now and leave me!

* * *

_

"I have never expected to be forgiven," Erik said quietly, dropping his eyes to the floor and bringing his hand to his mask and numbly stroking its hard, inhuman surface. "No one has ever surprised me, Christine, and I don't expect anyone ever will." A lie. He silently cursed his own cowardice, nausea rising in his gut as he felt her eyes on his face, prying beneath his mask like intrusive hands. She had already surprised him – shocked him within a hands breadth of death.

"A lie. You _lie _to me," she said under her breath, searching his face. He refused to meet her eyes and she saw his fingers tremble against the white plane of his ghostly façade. Christine took a step forward, willing him to speak both with her presence and her tone. She whispered, aware of the tremor in her gentle voice, "I am sick of lies." Erik looked up, his expression suddenly very young. "He is afraid," she thought, taking another step forward. "He is afraid to love me."

Erik could feel her warm breath on his face, a painfully familiar caress. The past and present flickered in his mind; he could barely breathe. With what little air he had, he forced himself to speak.

"I cannot think what you would want to hear from me," he said softly, biting the word "me" just as it left his lips. He finally met her eyes, barely able to stand even that strange unfeeling intimacy between them. The way their eyes met seemed almost unholy.

"Please… I just wish to hear that you do not hate me." She was pleading, both with her voice (almost a sob, really) and her dark eyes. A thousand replies jumped to Erik's tongue, each more inappropriate or inane than the last. Some were scathing: "Why shouldn't I hate you." Some were insanely tempting, but Erik immediately pushed those aside, refusing: "Hate you? Mon Dieu, Christine, I love you." She looked as if she was about to cry – as if his hysteria-born silence was slowly killing her. The pain evident in her delicate features was enough to force him into reckless speech.

"I do not hate you, Vicomtess," he whispered, surrendering to her, laying his neck across the chopping block beneath her heavy, shining ax. If he could not take his own life, perhaps she would do him the honor. "How could I hate her?" Erik mused silently, watching emotions rage across Christine's haunting visage.

Christine scarcely allowed herself to breath, lest she exhale and blow this fantasy away. She had succeeded; he had admitted he did not hate her. A modest triumph, yes, but a triumph nonetheless. And had he said nothing, or worse, said what she least wanted to hear, she knew the results would have been nothing short of devastating. Christine shook even to think of those excruciating words tumbling from his handsome lips: "Oui, Vicomtess. I hate you." A dizzying energy surged forth within her, bolstered by her paltry victory and foolish hope, and livened her tongue. Before she could think to silence herself, the words had flown from her lips, winged birds slicing through the happiness of her small, stolen moment of hope.

"But do you love me?"

The silence was so pure that it almost hurt her ears. Her foolish words hung in the air before her, and Christine felt that if she reached out she probably could have simply plucked them from the modest space between the Phantom and herself. In one hand she would hold "But do you," and in the other, "love me?" The latter would weigh significantly more, naturally, as "love" is about the heaviest word one may deploy. And at the moment, Christine felt smothered by it. Erik's face, if it was possible, had gone a shade whiter, bringing the shade of his skin into perfect harmony with the colorlessness of his sinister façade. In contrast, his eyes blazed up to the height of their icy hue; his pupils were so impossibly, unnaturally azure that they scorched her, making her eyes burn. Whether it was anger burning there, in the arctic depths of his gaze, or something else, she could not yet tell.

"What do you want from me?" It was barely a hiss, low and predatory – so immediately dangerous that Christine stumbled back a step, widening the gap between their bodies. Erik felt as if he were about to collapse. His heart screamed within the cavity of his chest: "Oui, oui, Christine. I love you, mon Dieu, I love you…" but he could not say it. He would not allow himself the shame. In his mind's eye he could see her, a glowing white angel in the darkness of his cavern. He sang to her, pleading, crying:

_Christine, I love you…_

The angel did not show mercy; no, she pressed the ring into his hand. The diamond ring that had bound them – that she had placed upon her finger as she pressed her lips to his, damning him with her cruelty, her kindness, and her inconceivable innocence. The diamonds seemed to cut his hand – nothing more than winking shards of glass, like those of a broken mirror. They stared up at him like so many eyes, and he could not bear it. He looked up, but she had already left him.

_Christine, I love you…_

No, he would not sacrifice himself again. Christine had shown him the extent of her kindness, riding away in the cursed boat with that bland, mindless boy. And the final jab – she looked back to the shore and met the Phantom's eyes.

Erik stood before her, a statue dressed all in black. She thought she knew, then, what was in his mind – what dreadful moment played over and over. She felt the weight of the diamond ring in her hand but knew that it wasn't there, for she had given it back to him. Smiling cruelty – she had given him back his ring. Thrown his love back at his grieving visage, and left. Sudden grief flooded Christine, intense and debilitating in a way that her grief for Raoul had never been.

"I should have never left you," she whispered, recognizing in stark contrast the discrepancies between the haunting, seductive Phantom she had once known and the embittered, angry man who now stood before her. "Why did you let me go? Why did you have to let me go?" Christine was screaming now, her eyes red from tears and her voice made hoarse by loss. "WHY?"

"What would you have had me do, Vicomtess, lash you to the gate? Bound you to me? You wanted to GO – it was you who left. Can you honestly blame me for your decision?" The tension in the room was tangible, as if the coldness had been swept from the air, and been replaced by the dead, dry heat of a desert. Beads of sweat broke on Erik's brow, unwanted tears.

"You told me to go. You told me to leave. I was a child!"

_Go now – go now, and leave me!_

"You made the choice. You, not I!" he spat, advancing a step to tower over her, eyes glowing. There were tears running down her face, unstoppable, but Erik's visage appeared dry.

"I thought you wanted me to go," Christine yelled, angry now. "You were so frightening… I didn't understand! And we kissed – we kissed! Do not tell me you have forgotten that – pushed it away with your hatred. You ruined me with that kiss; how could I ever be happy with Raoul after it? You _knew._" Erik's face was swept blank, his eyes sapped of all emotion. It was as if someone had thrust him into shadow, into ice.

"You kissed me to save him, you cruel child. You destroyed me." His voice was hollow, his eyes dead behind the mask. "Or have you forgotten? It's all easier, isn't it, when I'm the one who made you leave. But you know that isn't true, Vicomtess. You _left._"

Christine took a step forward, closing the gap between them. With a trembling hand, she grasped the silk of his rumpled cravat, the dark fabric stained by the blood he had drawn himself in his desperate and prevented attempt on his life, and forced his face but an inch from her own.

"My name, Erik, is _Christine Daaé._" Barely drawing a breath, she covered his mouth with her own.


	21. Beau

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Beau**

It was like drowning, or what I imagined drowning to be. All I knew were intense flashes of panic, foreign sensations, and mindless fear. It was like drowning, but I was not drowning. I could feel her hand on the masked side of my face – a strange weight on the surface of my life-long façade, trembling. And her lips. Her perfect lips clung to mine, desperate and pleading and so unbearably soft I thought it impossible. How could a person feel so _soft_? I froze when her lips first collided with mine, stunned into an odd half-complacency by the situation – by her unexpected caress. And then, God help me, there was fire in my veins. It roared like a desert storm and I couldn't hear over the inhuman sound. It was as if the Opera Populaire was burning down around our heads, deafening and real. Or as if I was still in the desert and a wall of blinding sand was about to engulf my world. But there was nothing but my humble candlelit kitchen in a country that was not our own, nor ever would be. And her lips against mine.

I was drowning, unable to keep a thought in my head. Her lips were like a burst of morphine to the blood and my grasp on the world was broken, denied by her kindness or her cruelty or whatever it was I felt there in her mouth, in the inexplicable press of her perfect skin against mine, my face gruesomely imperfect in every way conceivable. The storm – the flame consumed me, consumed my pride, my doubt, my anger. My regret. And all at once I opened my mouth beneath hers, desperately responding to a kiss that should never have happened with a person I was never supposed to see again. An angel. And we were undone.

* * *

He was like ice beneath my palm, the cool surface of his mask slick and unfeeling, but I pressed my hand to it nonetheless. It was all he offered, and all I could take. But, mon Dieu, I wanted so much more than that artificial prop, that angry souvenir of a broken, callous life. I wanted to press my palm to the living flesh beneath it, no matter how grotesque, how twisted that life was. The mask was more hideous than any molten flesh could be.

But at least I had his lips, still as they were. It had been like this the last time: me, begging him for love, and him, a cold, response-less statue. I would not surrender this time. I knew that beneath this thick armor of ice and apathy beat a mortal heart – indeed, I had heard it. I had seen his blood – tasted the metallic sweetness of it in my mouth. I knew him to be so human that it hurt, and I was glad to know. I preferred Erik to the fiery Phantom I had once known, to any dark Angel of Music.

I coaxed him with my lips, softly caressing his mouth with what device I had, begging him. Even like this I could taste him – that inescapable flavor that had stained my palette and clung to my mouth for so many months after the disaster, after our brief, stolen passion in the dark labyrinth below the Opera Populaire. I remember it well; at night, lying in bed next to my adoring husband I would taste that dark, wild tang, and my mind would flood with thoughts of a darker, wilder man than the bland boy beside me. After I had left Erik that taste was like poison in my mouth, driving me mad with guilt and rage and a sorrow I could barely comprehend. I could taste it now, so overwhelming, so perfect. I felt like I was drowning.

And then his lips opened against mine and I knew his passion, and we both plunged headfirst into madness.

* * *

Erik returned the kiss, welcoming agony in exchange for a small shred of humanity – this dark and forbidden pleasure. Christine responded immediately, bringing her other hand to the bare side of his face and pressing him to her, kissing him with all the ferocity and abandon she could offer. He threw the ferocity back at her, catching her full bottom lip between his teeth and nipping the tender flesh, almost wanting to taste sharp blood on his tongue. A sickly sweet reminder, perhaps, once this madness inevitably ceased and misery flowed in, that it had happened at all.

He slid his uninjured right hand across the nape of her neck, slowly, caressing the bare skin of her shoulders and the abundant curls of her dark hair, which had all but escaped from their upswept arrangement. The contact, however innocent, felt agonizingly sinful. With his hand at the base of her slender neck Erik pressed her to his suffering body, craving any contact he could steal in this inexplicable and inevitably short-lived moment. Her petit curves molded to his long frame immediately, shocking the air from his throat even as she stole his right to breathe with her lips. Christine's hand trembled against his cheek and he felt her nails against his bare skin. She clung to him.

A violent rage pulsed within him, demanding to be considered even as Christine shook beneath his hand and made a small sound in the depth of her throat, like sighing. He tried to exorcize it through his lips, kissing her with such aggression that he thought it almost cannibalistic in nature. But she did not balk under his attack; Christine returned his ardor, teasing the inside of his lips with her tongue. A sigh in the back of her throat again, like a whimper. He thought the sound alone was enough to drive him mad.

Erik could feel the dizzy rise and fall of her chest against him, her breath as fast and panicked as that of a wild bird suddenly confined to a cage. Her hand pressed his mask to his gruesome flesh so hard that it began to hurt – a dull, throbbing pain beneath her hand. Their passion was suddenly so familiar that Erik could almost feel Raoul's stare burning into the back of his neck – could hear the echoes of those who were coming down to kill him from the burning opera house above.

Christine started as Erik suddenly tore himself from their kiss, panting for breath with a frenzied, frightening look in his bright eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came from his lips but a hoarse sob, almost like a plea. Christine could have wept at the sound alone. It was so like another her had made, years ago in the darkness of a cavern. Before she had left him.

"I'm not leaving. I'm here, Erik, I'm here," Christine whispered to him, their lips almost touching. Her breath was warm against his face, almost as if he could feel the words as she spoke them, and he shuddered. The smell of midsummer roses clung to her, the aroma suffocating in its intense familiarity. He could feel tears on his face and felt ashamed, but she caressed his bare skin with her hand, smearing the tears away. They still clung beneath his mask, saline and stubborn, but he was thankful; to be exposed before her now would surely kill him. Her dark eyes searched his face, shining with something deep and dark and ultimately beyond his comprehension. He had seen that elusive look in her eyes before, in the stifling recesses of the Opera Populaire, before she had made her decision. Before his angel had left him – the monster masquerading as the divine.

She met his eyes and almost flinched at the color of them; they were so brightly and unnaturally blue that the sight of them almost burnt her. Christine whispered again, desperate for his understanding – his forgiveness. "I will not leave." Another tear escaped his bright eye and traced a shining stream down his perfect cheek, over smooth skin. And Erik sobbed once more, but this time Christine caught his sob in her mouth, covering his lips with her own. She could taste his tears in her mouth and the flavor was so like that which she had tasted that night that she almost drew away, afraid of the memory. But Erik was there, his hand on her back, pressing her to him. His lips were hard against hers, as if he was trying to fuse them as one. Christine savored the sweet pain and the pleasure it brought with it; she felt she was falling, vanishing but for the sensation of his tongue against hers and his lips, his teeth.

Suddenly, her back slammed against a wall and what air she had was brutally knocked from her lungs. Erik pressed her against the unflinching surface, molding his strong body into her soft curves. His lips wandered from her mouth, tracing a warm trail to her throat – her shoulder blade. Christine quaked under his mouth and gasped for air; she felt as if she were under siege. The intensity of his attentions frightened her; it was as if her Erik was not there at all – his mind was elsewhere as rage and passion overcame him, tearing from him any sense of reason or self. And so she whispered, breathed his name into his ear, pleading for her Angel, "Erik, stay with me." Christine ached for the sound of his voice, for some affirmation that this was reality and that he was here.

He slowed, the ferocity of his onslaught lessening at the sound of her voice. Erik drew his lips against the silken flesh of her neck, over bruises he had given birth to only hours prior, and answered her softly, almost sorrowfully, "Christine, Christine…" She pressed her hand against his tear-stained cheek and brought his face to her own, replacing her fingers with her lips. Christine could feel his heartbeat through his chest, pressed as it was to her own, and she savored the realization that its beat was as frenzied as her own. The wall was unrelenting against her back – the surface as cold as the Phantom's mask. His mask.

Suddenly Christine wanted nothing more in the world than to strip the cold mask from his flesh, twisted or frightening though it may be. She wanted to press her hand to the deformation that had in turn marred what could have been a perfect, triumphant life. She could remember how it had felt beneath her hand before, in the echoing depths of what was once Erik's home – it had felt real, human, and like Erik. Her desire to press her palm to it once more, to feel the source of all her Angel's agony, was almost suffocating. Her lips were still pressed to his unmarred cheek, to the half-perfection that must have mocked him all his life with its undeniable beauty. His lips caressed her neck, her bruises, perhaps trying to heal her wounds with his soft mouth. She slid her hand over his mask, slowly, fear weighing on her frantic heart.

Erik froze beneath the movement of her hand – the slow shift in pressure evident through the surface of his precious and hated façade. Swiftly, barely even considering his action, he slammed Christine's hand against the wall behind her with his forearm, pinning her there with his bandaged appendage resting again the expanse of wall above her head. She was pressed hard against the wall beneath him; he could feel the bones of her corset through the smooth fabric of her dark dress, feel the violent beat of her heart beneath that.

He hissed against her neck, voice low and dangerous, "What do you think you are doing?" She shuddered slightly under his soft breath, only partly from fear.

"I – I wanted to remove your mask," Christine stammered, wishing she could see his unforgettable eyes, however frightening they would likely appear. She felt a tear drop from his face to the bare skin of her shoulder and run a cold path down her back, beneath her heavy dress and corset.

"Why?" the Phantom whispered, and the pain clearly detectable in his low voice brutally pierced her flesh – lightning straight to her frantic heart. Christine closed her eyes, suddenly finding even the flickering candlelight of the kitchen too bright for her to stand.

"I want to see you." He pressed harder against her, almost crushing her against the wall with his muscular form. She could feel a quake in his shoulders, almost like he was silently sobbing against her.

"Why? Why would you want to see that which you _hate_?" he spat, biting out the word "hate" with such malice it stung her ears. She could feel his teeth graze the bruised flesh of her throat as he spoke, and tried desperately not to gasp at the sensation. Tears pricked under her closed eyelids, threatening their imminent escape, and when she spoke, Christine could hear the tears in her own soft voice.

"Mon Dieu, Erik, how foolish you are." He stiffened against her, a firm, unyielding wall not unlike the one behind her, and she quickly continued, afraid of what wrath she might incur. "I wanted to see your face because you are beautiful," she whispered against his unmarred cheek, "So beautiful."

Erik tore away from her violently, putting perhaps a foot between his face and hers in a breath's time. Christine was left leaning hard against the wall, suddenly cold and her body aching for the warmth of his form pressed hard against hers. There were tears on Erik's face and his bright eyes were brighter with them, the alien blue shining with sparkling dew. There was hysteria there, in the arctic blue, and pain. He slowly brought his unbroken right hand to his mask, his fingers trembling. They hung there in the air before his white mask, barely touching its hard surface as he stared out at her from beneath the façade, his eyes unnaturally vivid.

* * *

I stood from the strange bed, a heavy blood velvet coverlet falling from my body. I balked at my state of near undress; the chilling cold of the dark cavern prickled against my skin, finding easy access through the thin white lace of her negligee and satin of my indecent corset. Suddenly, strange music filled my ears, resounding like thunder through the great empty undergrounds. The walls dripped with tapestries and ivory candles flickered wantonly atop gaudy golden candelabras. The sight alone made me feel unbearably faint it was so overwhelming in its strange, otherworldly opulence. And slowly, my memories returned to me.

_I remember there was mist,_

_ Swirling mist upon a vast glossy lake._

_ There were candles all around and on the lake there was a boat_

_ And in the boat there was a man…_

My eyes swept across the alcove, finally finding the wraithlike man in a black suit and red waistcoat, so stunning in his somber poise. My angel. And when he turned at the sound of my voice, my eyes found his mask, a glowing white presence on his angelic visage. The Phantom of the Opera, so ominous and alluring. A mystery. The alien surroundings vanished from my mind as I made her way along the shore, towards the mysterious man in the mask. He played on, clouding my mind and senses with exotic music.

_ Who was that shape in the shadows?_

_ Whose is the face in the mask?_

His back was to me as I quietly approached, finally coming to a stop directly behind him, so close I could almost feel the warmth of his body. But when I pressed my hand to his bare left cheek, I almost flinched at the coldness of his skin – almost inhuman. He pressed against my hand, seeking my warmth. And, barely considering my actions, I pried the sinister façade from his angelic face, sinfully and unstoppably curious. My heart almost stopped at the sight I was greeted with. And God help me, I screamed. Screamed for my shock and her fright, my disappointment, my disbelief – screamed like the foolish girl child I still truly was.

_ Damn you, you little prying Pandora!_

_ You little demon – is this what you wanted to see?_

_ Curse you, you little lying Delilah!_

_ You little viper – now you cannot ever be free._

_ Damn you, curse you!_

My angel vanished in an instant, replaced by a raving, terrifying creature I found I could barely call a man. It was not his face – no, his face was so painfully human it hurt me to remember its twisted appearance. It was the look I had seen in his brilliant eyes, too intense to be real – to unfamiliar to be mortal. I think now, looking back, that that was the first moment I ever truly hated myself – the second I saw the unbearable, unbelievable depth of suffering in his beautiful eyes. I did not know it then, but I was a fool, too young to see what my eyes were showing me and too afraid to know that the Phantom was anything but a monster. I was the monster.

_ Stranger than you dreamt it,_

_ Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me?_

_ This lonesome gargoyle who burns in hell,_

_ But secretly yearns for heaven,_

_ Secretly, secretly, but Christine…_

He said my name like a prayer, and I balked at the sound of it. His voice, which had captivated me for so many years – a decade, perhaps – suddenly frightened me beyond all reckoning. I could feel the image of his hideous face slipping from my memory even as he sang, replaced by a recollection of beauty – beauty so perfect I could barely stand it. But I clung to the memory of his twisted flesh, desperate to retain my sense of self. Did I pity him? Mon Dieu. I looked at him with very pretty sympathy, and I'm sure it might have moved many in this world, but I gave it to him out of fear. Out of cowardice. He did not want my sympathy. No, he never did, my Angel. What he wanted I could not give him then; I did not know how. And yet, when I look back on that child, that little girl, I feel only bitterness. I cannot forgive her, and never will.

_ Fear can turn to love._

_ You'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster,_

_ This repulsive carcass who seems a beast,_

_ But secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly,_

_ Oh Christine…

* * *

_

They stood there in silence for what seemed like an eternity before suddenly, unexpectedly, Erik tore the mask from his face.

The mask clattered to the kitchen floor, the sound so loud in the near silence of the kitchen that it seemed deafening.

"Is _this_ what you sought? Is _this _what you would call beautiful?" he hissed, voice broken with insistent tears. His face was as she had remembered. Fierce distortions in his flesh ran the length of his right cheek, like dreadful scars. The flesh around his eyes sagged sorrowfully, contrasting almost painfully with the seeming perfection of the left side of his face. His right cheekbone appeared uneven and distressed and the hair was haphazardly stripped from the right side of his skull. Christine almost smiled at the sight of his familiar face so glad was the feeling in her chest. Her Erik was still there, beneath the dreadful Phantom and dark Angel. Erik, his startling face still intact as the terrifying and cold façade fell away. Joy pulling at the corners of her lips, Christine took a step forward and closed the gap between them.

He flinched, a child expecting to be hit, but Christine only raised her left hand to delicately touch his marred cheek, her fingertips trembling over the cruel imperfections that she remembered so well. His bright eyes slowly closed as she pressed her palm to the length of his ghastly right cheek, her warm hand covering the ridges and valleys until they had all but vanished. His twisted face was warm and wet with tears beneath her palm – so undeniably real and human that she could have wept. Christine leaned forward then, her lips coming to rest against his left ear as she whispered to him, shaking.

"My beautiful friend." A powerful shudder wracked through his body and new tears wet the palm of her hand. And then Erik was holding Christine to him, his arms wrapping around her, his unbroken hand splayed on the small of her back, the heat of his palm almost scalding even through innumerable layers of dark fabric and boning. She whispered to him then, singing back to him a song he had tried to forget in the darkness, in a time that seemed all but gone.

_ Angel of music, I denied you_

_ Turning from true beauty_

_ Angel of music, my protector, come to me strange angel…_

There was a moment of silence, no longer, before Erik was with her once more, his lips rough against hers and his unbroken hand pressing Christine into his body, pleading, desperate. And then her feet were no longer touching the floor – he lifted her with one hand, as easily as if she were still a child. Her arms came to rest round his neck, her hands clinging to his shoulders, and suddenly she was laying across his arms, cradled. His lips never left hers, his passion not diminished in any way as he carried her from the kitchen into a room so dark she could no longer see his unmasked face. Christine made a sound of protest when Erik laid her gently on what felt to be a bed and he froze above her, invisible in the darkness. She could not find him in the blackness that surrounded her but for the sound of his breathing, as rough and fast as her own.

"I want to see you," Christine breathed, her heart like a weight in her chest. And then she held her breath, afraid of what he might say, but he said nothing. A brutal silence stretched on for a few moments, frightening Christine to her core, before a match suddenly burst into bright flame, illuminating the unmarred side of Erik's face. He moved around the room, quickly lighting candles until, finally, the bedroom was bathed in a warm glow. It became all too obvious that he was trying his best to only present her with the left side of his face and she could see the pain evident in his expression as she watched his movements around the room, all too aware that the loss of his mask was torturing him.

Erik finished his task and found he could bring himself to do nothing more than sit on the side of the bed, carefully facing away from Christine. Shame filled him, pressing on his heart and lungs until he felt like he could no longer breathe. The cool air of the bedroom caressed his bare face, mocking him. He heard Christine sit up behind him and move down the bed until she came to sit behind him, so close he could smell the intoxicating aroma of her hair.

"Thank you," she murmured, reaching out to place a cautious hand on the back of his neck. He shuddered at the gentle caress, wanting both to pull her to him and to run, flee from this bedroom and the bright, flickering candle light and her beautiful eyes. Already she had shocked him, whispering to him even as his hideous, terrible face was bare – calling him beautiful. How could she bring herself to touch him now, having seen what he had seen every time he looked hatefully into a mirror?

"I can deny you nothing," Erik said quietly, still refusing to turn and let her see him – to let her change her mind.

"Please look at me," she whispered, not moving her hand from the nape of his neck, her fingers just resting in his dark hair. Christine felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, and waited.

Finally, Erik turned to face her, eyes closed and expression pained. Unbeknownst to him, Christine smiled warmly at the sight of his face in the flickering candlelight – it was so like a time long ago, and yet so blissfully different. Taking a deep breath, Christine leaned in and softly kissed his twisted cheek, pausing as she heard him draw a sharp breath at the sensation. But he did not move away, and Christine gently caressed his broken flesh with her lips, slowly tracing the angry ridges and valleys of his face. Another sound in his throat and then she felt him holding his breath and found his lips with her mouth, suddenly desperate to taste him again – to feel his warmth. She kissed him gently, coaxing him out of silence, out of fear, and when she pulled away he took a shaky breath and looked at her straight on – stared into her dark eyes. She did not flinch when she met his bright gaze, however intense it was, for there was no anger in his eyes – no malice. Christine smiled, not knowing what else to do, and she saw warmth in his eyes, though his lips did not move to return her gesture.

Erik reached out slowly with his right hand to draw away a loose curl that had fallen before her eyes, his fingers shaking but the movement gentle. He stared at the dark ringlet for a moment, as if considering the curl as it lay soft against his hand, and then met Christine's gaze once more. Quietly – so quietly she could barely hear him at all – he whispered, "Sing for me."


	22. Song

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-two: Song**

"I do not know if I can sing now," she murmured, casting her eyes downward in shame to have neglected the gift that Erik had once bestowed upon her.

He delicately caught her chin with the long fingers of his right hand and lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. His expression was nothing short of passionate, a look that belonged more in her memories of the past than in this unbelievable present, and yet, she relished it. He said fiercely, "I don't believe it." Christine breathed out, quaking slightly for fear of her own inability. Unable to refuse him now, his face unmasked before her and eyes bright, she started quietly, her voice barely more than a shaky whisper:

_ Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation…_

In the candlelight Christine thought she saw something akin to a smile flicker across Erik's mouth before he slid across the bed. He sat directly behind her, completely out of her sight – a phantom. When he said nothing, she continued with a bit more confidence, letting her voice free from the quiet cavern in which she had hidden it for so long. It seemed so out of place in Erik's bedroom, winging out and resonating within the modest walls.

_ Darkness stirs and wakes imagination,_

_ Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_

Unexpectedly,Erik's hand was in her hair, gently caressing the nape of her neck through her curtain of curls. He struggled to steady himself – to breath at all. Despite her fear and timidity, Christine's voice was still perfection, just as he'd sculpted it to be, but it was different now. It was no longer the voice of a girl. It was more than that. He could hear the suffering and pain of the past years in her tone and the mournful sound of her voice seemed to prickle up and down his spine in a way it never had before. But there was more still – a deeper undercurrent, resonant and barely detectable. He could not pin it, name the emotion that could give birth to such a sound; he only knew that it was nothing he had taught her. Erik leaned forward to trace the line of her neck with his lips, softly, barely touching her bruised flesh. She quaked at the touch of his mouth, a ripple passing through the slender muscles of her shoulders and arms, and he heard her breath catch before she relaxed, and continued to sing.

_ Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor,_

_ Grasp it – sense it, tremulous and tender._

Erik slid his hand down the nape of her neck, along her smooth skin and along her spine before his fingers found the back of her gown. He cursed his bandaged hand, enraged that it kept him a moment longer from his attentions, but continued with his right hand, hesitantly locating the metal hooks that held the dark fabric of her dress together. Secretly he found comfort in her current blindness – she could not see his horrible face with him behind her as he was, and Erik rejoiced in it. For all her inexplicable disregard to his face up to this point, he feared it would not last. Her blindness couldn't possibly endure. Erik's expression darkened at the thought of the inevitable end to this moment and ran a trembling fingertip over the clasps of her dress, agonizing over the thought of the ivory corset beneath, and the soft skin beneath that.

_ Turn your face away from the garish light of day,_

_ Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,_

_ And listen to the music of the night…_

Her voice was breathy now – shaky in a way that was so foreign to Erik that he almost shuddered, entranced as he watched her reach behind herself, pale hands coming to rest on the clasps holding her dress together. Awkwardly, she began to pull them apart and the metal hooks released. Bit by bit the burgundy satin fell away, revealing a few inches of the tight lacings of Christine's whalebone corset. He could see her shoulders trembling and felt a similar quake in his own limbs; the fear of this moment, of their closeness almost suffocated him. Erik struggled against it, fighting for control, for the ability to hold on to this one pleasure. He reached forward to touch her hand and still its actions. He stared at her back, suddenly struck by the improbability of his current circumstances and frozen with a terror – a pulsing, tightening knot in his chest.

Christine fell silent and slowly leaned back towards her angel, aching for the caress of his hand now that it had stilled. The room was achingly silent, and she waited, willing him to reappear – to not have vanished once more. When there was no more contact, Christine continued to sing, pleading for Erik's touch.

_ Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_

_ Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before,_

_ Close your eyes – let your spirit start to soar,_

_ And you'll live as you've never lived before…_

Christine trailed off, unable to continue for the fear in her chest, pressing painfully on her heart. She whispered, hope and panic infusing her voice, "Erik?" The quaver he heard was more than he could stand and Erik felt the thread of control within him tighten, so close to snapping at last. Fear coursed through him like poison; what would he do, should that thread snap?

Suddenly, his hand was on her back, sliding over her bare skin and then over what was exposed of her corset's tight lacings. He leaned into her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body, and brought his mouth to rest softly against her ear. And then, God help her, he began to sing.

_ Softly, deftly, music shall caress you,_

_ Hear it, feel it secretly possess you,_

_ Open up your mind – let your fantasies unwind_

_ In this darkness which you know you cannot fight,_

_ The darkness of the music of the night._

Instantly captivated by the familiar, angelic tones of his voice, Christine arched back into his body, her bare shoulders coming to rest against the silk and linen-clad expanse of his chest. Her position was so reminiscent to that she had found herself in during "Don Juan Triumphant" that a shudder ran up her back, beneath the long fingers of his hand. Erik continued to sing, sliding his right hand over the curves of her waist before returning to the clasps of her dress. He began to delicately undo the remaining hooks, allowing himself full access to her corset lacings as the dress fell away.

_ Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world,_

_ Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before,_

_ Let your soul take you where you long to be,_

_ Only then can you belong to me…_

The dress slid down her body, revealing in full her corset. He slid his hand around her delicate waist, lingering there before venturing upwards, over the swell of her breasts. Christine gasped at the sensation – even through her corset the contact felt so sinful, so deliriously intoxicating. She tried to turn, to face him, but Erik held her with his hand and forearm, powerfully pinning her back to his muscular chest. She could feel the vibrations of his singing through his torso and could feel the words ringing in her own.

_ Floating, falling, sweet intoxication,_

_ Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation…_

Erik caught her left hand in his fingers and gently brought it to the left side of his face, allowing her to caress the smooth skin and perfect bones of the unmarred half of his countenance. Christine's eyes slowly closed and suddenly she was afraid to open them – afraid that in the place of Erik's candlelit London bedroom she would find herself deep in the caverns under the Opera Populaire, in the shadowy lair that the Phantom of the Opera had called his home. But as Erik continued to sing softly into her ear, gently soothing her with his otherworldly voice, Christine found she no longer cared where she was.

_ Let the dream begin, _

_ Let your darker side give into the power of the music that I write,_

_ The power of the music of the night._

_You alone can make my song take flight,_

_ Help me make the music of the night…_

His voice trailed off into nothing, a heady, tense silence, his lips a fleeting weight against the flesh beneath her ear. Her hand had dropped from his face and now rested in her lap, buried in the yards of dark fabric that made up her dress. Then, unexpectedly, her other hand was at his marred, terrible cheek, her fingertips lighting over years of ruin and agony. He flinched, unable to subdue the impulsive reaction to touch so foreign. She felt the movement and paused, her smooth fingertips resting just against the angry ruin of his cheekbone. Christine said very softly, so that he could barely hear her, "Why won't you let me see you?"

He made a course sound in his throat. "I should think it obvious." The softness in his voice was instantly gone, all trace of the angelic, smooth sounds of his song vanished in a second's time. Christine turned in his arms, fighting against his lithe hand as it came up to prevent her, to obstruct her. Finally she had turned and they were caught in a strange face-off, knees to knees on the bed. Erik angled his face, putting his ravaged features in near shadow. Christine was quick, catching his movement in her hand and preventing him from turning further. There was a deep hurt in his eyes – enough suffering evident in his bright gaze to make her hate herself for causing him such pain.

"Must you torture me?" he said in a hollow voice, not struggling against her hand, only looking her in the eye with that scathing agony that she had seen the first time he had been unmasked before her, in his cavern beneath the Opera Populaire. Christine felt something well up in her throat, hard and insistent.

She found she could say nothing, do nothing. Impulsively, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the corner of Erik's tense mouth, whispering, "Please." She kissed again, softly, and saw his eyes close. He was trembling. "Please." Christine placed her lips against his, resting there, waiting. He leaned into it, pressing his lips against hers as his unbroken hand traced a path up the back of her corset, his fingers coming to rest just above the edge, on the skin of her back. There was madness in his blood, urging him forward hot and demanding. Her hands were at his shoulders, desperately seeking his warmth through the layers of fine clothing. He did not stop her; his hand was buried in her hair, pressing her lips to his with a deep _need_, so familiar to her own that it shook her to the core. Christine fumbled through his cravat and waistcoat, buttons and fine fabrics haphazardly falling away to reveal the hard lines of his body, sculpted and graceful beneath the thin linen of his shirt. Erik shuddered when she ran her palms up his chest, tracing the lean lines of his muscles from his waist to collarbone, only fabric between their skins. He pulled back and met her eyes and found them as half-mad as he expected his own were, her gaze dark and bottomless – a labyrinth. And the trembling thread of restraint within him snapped.

There was no control then; he deftly turned her in his hands, maneuvering her body until he found the laces of her corset. Hands trembling, he began to unlace them with an expertise he didn't remember ever acquiring. One by one, the smooth laces slid apart, the ivory corset gaping to reveal the white lace and silk of Christine's chemise, the fabric clinging to the smooth skin of her back. When at last the corset had come free completely, he cast it aside and paused a moment, considering the foreign situation he know found himself in and the beautiful, barely-clothed woman before him. His fiery eyes traced her curves, easily discernible through the light fabric of her gauzy chemise. Eyes never leaving her, he pulled his shirt over his head and pulled her naked shoulders to him, pressing their skins together.

The warmth of his skin was enough to drive her mad, and she turned quickly to face him, allowing his hand to slide about her until his palm came to rest on the small of her back, fingers grazing the naked skin beneath her chemise. She drank in the sight before her, eyes caressing the powerful build of his body, the lean muscles easily evident beneath his pale skin. Christine reached forward to run the palm of her hand from the Adam's apple of his neck down the center of his chest, through the dark smattering of hair she found there. Leaning forward, she found his nipples with her mouth, one by one brushing her lips over them before using her teeth. She looked up at his face, watching as a slow breath shook from his parted lips. Meeting her eyes, Erik silently mouthed her name, face taught and expression inexplicable. He leaned forward, covering her mouth with his own, running his tongue across the swell of her bottom lip and eliciting from Christine a soft groan in the back of her throat. Her lips opened to him and he fell blindly into their kiss, savoring the taste of her as he felt her tongue in his mouth, brushing against his own.

Erik rose up to push her back onto the coverlet, finding himself lying with his legs resting between hers. She moaned as he covered her body with his own and wrapped her arms about his broad shoulders and shuddered as he momentarily broke their kiss to run his lips along her neck, pausing to nip the lobe of her ear. He felt her move beneath him and ran his right hand under her chemise, up her side until he encountered the naked swell of her breast. She gasped as he deftly caught the base of her chemise and stripped it from her body, sliding it over her head and arms with unnatural grace and leaving her naked from the waist up, exposed beneath him. Erik drew back to gaze upon her in the candlelight, unabashedly appraising her with his bright eyes as stared up at him, eyes as wide as if she'd never been naked before a man in her life.

Christine was hesitant, worried even, until Erik smiled, releasing a shaky breath before lowering his mouth to her breast and exploring her nipple with his lips and teeth. She buried her hands in his hair and held him to her. With one hand Erik expertly stripped Christine of the dress that still clung to her legs and cast the immense pile of fabric aside, looking up to find his angel nude but for her lacy undergarments, garters, and stockings. She opened her eyes to look at him and he settled back over her body, savoring the sensation of her bare skin pressed to his chest, her nipples against him and fingertips running up the center of his spine, stroking.

He kissed her, taking the time to enjoy the shape of her lips against his own before pulling back to ask huskily, "Do you want me, Christine?"

She brought her lips within a breath of his and whispered, "Yes."

He looked away, eyes downcast. "You don't ache to look away, when we are as we are now and I am exposed before you?" he asked, voice so low she could scarcely hear him.

Christine brought her hands to the base of his spine and pulled him tight to her body, causing him to thrust against her and eliciting a moan from both. He dropped his head to bite her neck lightly right beneath her ear, careful to avoid the bruises marring her perfect skin. She arched beneath his body, breath catching in her throat as she felt him through the fabric of his trousers, hard and insistent against her.

"Do you love me, Erik?" Christine gasped, sliding both hands down his sides, tracing his muscles with her nails. He tensed beneath her fingertips for a moment, propping himself up on one arm to look down upon her, eyes burning into her with an intensity so great that she thought she would collapse from within should he leave her now. Erik's mind reeled with the current circumstances: the movement of her hips beneath his body, the sensation of her hands against his bare skin, the darkness of her wide eyes staring up at him, and the dreaded question she had just asked. The question was a dark temptation to him, the answer obvious but its ramifications still unknown. He opened his mouth to answer but found he could not, and stared at her, mouth half open. Christine shook her head, covering his mouth with a hand. "I suppose it does not matter now."

He did not wait then. Almost feverish in his lust for her Erik spun and grasped her by the arms, slamming her against the bed beneath them and finding her mouth with his own. Instinctively, Christine threw her legs around his waist, finding herself pressed intimately against his obvious arousal. She gasped into their kiss, raking her nails fast up his spine before running her hands again down his sides and between their bodies to the waistband of his trousers, where she proved surprisingly adept as she quickly unclasped them and slid a hand inside.

Erik groaned as she found him with her hand, running her slender fingers over the length of him as she helped him slide out of his trousers and undergarments, leaving him even more naked than she. As Christine touched him Erik ran a trembling hand up the lean muscles of her stocking-ed thigh before finding her center through the thin fabric of her undergarments with the fingers of his right hand, groaning as he found her wet there and heard the sharp gasp his touch provoked from her. He dropped his head to her breast and again drew her nipple into his mouth, biting the hard tip of her breast between his teeth even as he moved his hand against her, stroking her through the increasingly wet fabric of her lingerie. Erik looked to gaze upon her hand against his own body, caressing him as she moaned in keeping with his own attentions. The sight of her slender fingers against his flesh nearly drove him over the edge, and he ran his lips down across the skin of her torso, catching her hand in his and ceasing her activities. She stilled, trembling as his followed the line of her slender torso with his mouth, ending at last at the waistband of her lacy undergarments, where his warm breath alone gave her cause to moan.

Breath catching, Erik hooked his fingers beneath the waistband and pulled Christine's lingerie from her body to reveal her dark curls, a sight almost incomprehensibly beautiful to him. Drawing back to lift her leg he untied the laces to her garters and rolled down her stockings, pulling the gauzy fabric from her foot while staring down at her. She met his eyes without blinking, seemingly unashamed of her nakedness before him and unperturbed by the sight of his naked body, and face. No, in fact she did not seem perturbed in the least; her eyes were wide and liquid, and a blush colored her cheeks as she stared up at him, chest heaving as he deposited the last vestiges of her clothing on a chair beside the bed.

Erik looked back at her with a searing gaze – the sort of stare that scalds what it regards. She could see him there, in that gaze, both the man and the Phantom. His warmth, his adoration of her, and also his dark lust, his frightening passion.

He was upon her before she could think, heavy, powerful body covering her naked skin, his body intimately pressed against hers. He was no longer cold, as she had remembered him. Instead his skin felt to her as fiery as his gaze. Christine met his eyes.

"Angel," she whispered, lifting her hips to cradle his body. His eyes bore into her, reminding her of the fear she had once felt in his presence, but now only manifesting as delirious want.

"I am no angel," he said fiercely, running his hand up the length of her body, roughly. His dark hair fell across his face, hanging between them, and she brought up a hand to smooth it back, to look on him fully.

"No," she whispered, "and of that I am quite glad."


	23. Merde

_**Resonance **_**by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-three: Merde**

Erik could count on one hand the moments in his life worth taking the time to remember. They were few and far between, and often robbed of whatever beauty they had possessed given the events that occurred immediately after. Erik's life had a funny way of taking what little was good and balancing it against what was immeasurably bad, not that he had ever seen the humor in it. A dichotomous existence, he had often mused while bitterly greeting the image of his ravaged face in the mirror. But staring down into Christine's face, features lit by candlelight and eyes clear of fear or pain or regret, Erik resolved that whatever was to come in the moments following this one, he would never allow this one moment to be anything but beautiful when recalled. It is perhaps lucky that Erik took the time to make this choice, for as he leaned in to take Christine's mouth with his own, it was no longer the sound of her shaking breath that filled his ears. No, it was the sound of sirens.

"Meg," she sighed, eyes closing. The sirens wailed in the narrow streets, the sound of hooves beating the cobblestone outside, drawing closer. Erik whipped from her, sweeping to the window. "Merde," he hissed. Christine shivered, exposed to the cold air. Her hand went to her throat, feeling her necklace of bruises.

"Christine, unless you desire to be found thus I suggest you follow my example," Erik spat, tossing clothes at her as he brusquely pulled his shirt over his head. His eyes were wild and distant, and Christine flinched at the coldness in his voice. "So fast," she mused, "So quick the alteration."

Christine rose from the bed and Erik looked away, knowing full well that if his eyes strayed to her naked form he would not be able to help himself, police be damned. The sounds of the carriages drawing closer urged Erik on as he thrust his legs into his trousers. He could not think of that now. He could not let his mind wander to the moments preceding these, could not let regret color what had easily been the most beautiful sequence of moments in his entire life. Too many times had his life sullied his joy, and he would not allow that now. He bound it away inside himself, closing it off, locking the door to the feeling of her mouth against his mouth, her skin against his skin. "Quickly," he thought, pulling his boots on.

Christine felt as if she were bound by silken thread. The sounds outside seemed far off, and her limbs refused to cooperate as she looked at the clothes at her feet. Her body was humming with the pleasure of moments prior, unwilling to abandon it. She looked at Erik, the sweat of stress now clinging to his skin where that of need had been only minutes before, and knew that they could not both escape whatever was coming. And it was coming for him.

Out of the corner of his eye Erik saw that Christine was not moving. She stood still and naked in the candlelight, her mass of garments in a pool around her ankles. She looked at him with clear, calm eyes.

"Erik, you must run," she said quietly.

He turned away from her as if she'd slapped him for the second time that night, eyes narrowed.

"Erik, they will arrest you. You must not linger." Her voice was firm, face still with conviction. Her hair hung loosely around her bare shoulders, and Erik wondered if he was dreaming. Who was this woman, eyes strong and body bared before him? Bitter doubt coursed through him, unwilling still to abandon him.

"Just in time, Christine," he said, voice hard. "You seem to attract such coincidence." She stood firm, breeze from the open window stirring her hair as the streets outside filled with the sounds of shouts, the police carriages rolling to a rest beneath the window. "Again, you barely escape the Phantom of—"

"Do not be a fool, love," she spoke softly, silencing him with her tone. "You know as well as I that did it not threaten your freedom I would happily let them find us just as we were, modesty be damned." Erik would not look at her, and Christine felt rage flood her—rage at Erik's stubborn refusal to believe her, rage at the policemen outside, rage at herself for all she had done in her life to prevent her own happiness. She found she could not even look at him as he stood, muscles tensed beneath his untidy clothes and face a picture of stubborn refusal. She hated him then, just for a moment. She knew, too, that his anger would not rest. It would have ruined them had the police not come, as it always would as long as he held onto it so tightly. The knowledge of this sent a sharp pain winging through her heart, and she spoke, knowing in doing so she invited torment.

"Come and find me, Erik, if you can leave your anger. I will be waiting then, as I am now, and as I have for too long." She grimaced as she said the words, eyes closing. "And if you cannot let this rage go, I ask you do not find me."

Erik opened his mouth but did not speak, the full meaning of her words shocking him into silence. Desperation for her love fought bitterly with the doubt and the rage within him. Before Erik could find anything to say there were shouts at the door, the hard banging of a closed fist ringing in the candlelit room. He whipped around to address Christine, his anger and fear and love seizing across his bare face, but found her standing with her bare back to him, expression shut. "Go." she said lowly, barely loud enough for him to distinguish in the din. He reached out to touch her, to hold this, to cement the feeling of her flesh in his memory.

"GO NOW!" she bellowed.

When Christine finally turned, he had gone.

* * *

"Faster, damn you!" Meg yelled, hysteria cracking her voice. Joseph could only stare as the delightful, sunny creature he had danced with only minutes before turned into a seeming madwoman right before his eyes. The coach driver glanced behind him with wide eyes and slapped the reigns down, startling the horses into a manic sprint. The hand-cranked sirens of the police cars created a deafening roar in the cobbled streets, one Joseph would have assumed no one could be heard over.

The Adelphi appeared at the river's edge and the coach driver brought the carriage to a lurching halt in front of the chic hotel, where several police carriages already stood empty and newly, horses bucking nervously in their reigns.

"Thank you, old chap!" Joseph exclaimed in mock cheer, clapping the terrified driver on the shoulder with one hand before jumping from the carriage, hot on the heels of one Mademoiselle Giry.

"Vicomtess! Christine!" Meg yelled, running up the stairs with her mass of skirts pulled about her knees like a shameless child. Policeman lined the staircase but quickly jumped aside as they saw the blonde whirlwind heading their way. Meg spied the open apartment door at the top of the stair and practically leapt through the door.

"Christi—"

Meg stopped, broken glass crunching beneath her elegantly clothed feet, breathing, "Mon Dieu." Glass and blood lay scattered across the kitchen floor, and torn pieces of black lace. Meg blanched and cursed herself for not arriving sooner. Shaking wanly, she followed the sound of loud voices to the back bedroom, glass shards breaking beneath her feet like chips of ice.

"Viscountess, you will tell us where he is!"

Meg gasped at the sight that greeted her.

"Bonsoir, Meg," Christine said calmly, peering at her friend from the mass of Bobbies who now surrounded the bed she sat abreast, clothed haphazardly in a torn ball gown and what appeared to be bed linens.

Joseph practically knocked Meg over as he barreled through the bedroom door, panic infusing his young face. His mouth fell open as he caught Mademoiselle Giry and looked beyond her to Christine's perch in the extremely untidy bed.

Meg started to cry. Christine envied her tears. She seemed to have none of her own anymore, sitting there stripped of her pride but simultaneously apathetic to it. She could almost smell the judgment in the room as the policemen stood, faces full of antagonism beneath comical domed hats.

Joseph made various unintelligible sounds at the doorway.

"I assure you, I am quite all right." Christine looked at Meg with what she hoped was a soothing expression. The policemen let out various dubious grunts and groans at Christine's words.

"Mad Frenchwoman," one of the Bobbies said beneath his breath. Christine narrowed her eyes.

"As I was just explaining, I am not currently in need of assistance." She gingerly fingered her throat. "I appreciate the concern of those parties who undoubtedly contacted these… gentlemen, but at this juncture would like only to be left alone." She stated this all slowly in clear but accented English, eyes resting on Meg, who continued to puddle in Joseph's arms.

"No one is going nowhere 'til you tell us where he is, Viscountess!" the Sergeant fumed, hat jiggling on his bald head and cheeks flushed dark above his drooping mustache.

"Surely I have no idea to whom you are referring," Christine said coolly.

"I'll be damned if that's the truth! The bloody Opera Ghost, lady!"

Joseph's mouth dropped. "The _what_?"

The Sergeant fixed the young man with a disgusted look, eyes lingering on his disgracefully thin muttonchops. "Surely, it did not escape your detection during your time with him that Mister Claudin was the bloody scourge of Paris?" Joseph stared blankly at the Sergeant. "You know, all that rubbish with the Opera and the hangings and the fire and the masked man? Do you even read the bloody newspapers?"

Joseph could only stammer in reply, "But, but that man—they say he died."

"Left Paris at least," the Sergeant replied curtly, "And we've been watching him ever since, haven't we boys? And now we got eye-witnesses saying they seen him fleeing, bloody handed and mad, to this very location, the same location supplied to us by you not an hour ago, at which, unless I am mistaken, we have found the Viscountess de Chagny somewhat worse for the wear, and unwilling to give us a hint of what has gone on." He raised his eyebrows suggestively as he said "gone on."

Christine rolled her eyes.

"But he is not here, is he? Just left, I'd say." The Sergeant glared at the back of Christine's head.

Appalled at the rudeness of the Sergeant, Joseph emerged from his dazed state and found himself uncharacteristically annoyed. "Sergeant, by no means is this situation a reason to abandon your manners." Setting Meg in a heavy chair besides what Joseph could scarcely believe was the Phantom of the Opera's desk, he continued. "Perhaps you would not mind having a word with me in the hall, gentleman to gentleman so to speak, whilst the Viscountess has a moment to gather herself alone." The Sergeant opened his mouth to protest but Joseph cut him off: "With the assistance of Mademoiselle Giry, of course."

"Fine," the Sergeant grunted, "but if I come back in here and find her gone I'll throw you in the irons I've been saving for your friend, Mister Claudin."

"Fine."

"Bien." Christine fixed both men with a steely gaze.

The men exited the candlelit apartment. Christine sighed with relief. Meg rose and crossed the room to the bed, almost tripping over what appeared to be a chemise on her way. She lifted Christine's chin to look at her bruised neck, eyes wide.

"Did he do this to you?" she said softly.

Christine only nodded in response, lifting her hand to cover her wounds.

"Mon Dieu." Confusion crossed Meg's face as she took in Christine's state of near undress. "And then?" she asked hesitantly, blood warming her face.

"Surely you do not need to ask," Christine said quietly, torn between irritation and appreciation. Meg had, after all, contacted to police force with thought to Christine's protection, and for good reason. Thinking that Christine had been in danger was not entirely off the mark. Meg looked away, embarrassed.

"I—well, after seeing you in that state, I did not know what to do, or think. I was so afraid, Christine," Meg stuttered.

"I know, and your concern was not without basis. The timing was, perhaps, unfortunate."

"And he is…" Meg began to ask.

"Gone. And you will not speak a word." Christine leaned in, voice low but almost frighteningly earnest. "Promise me, Meg, dear friend."

Meg nodded, though with trepidation in her eyes.

* * *

"Well, I knew I found him interesting for a reason," Joseph Evans said lightly, fingers nervously running along the brim of his top hat.

"Thank you for dealing with the policemen, Mister Evans," Christine said with sincerity. "They were none too fond of me."

The carriage bounced along the cobblestones on its way to Christine's London flat. Meg stared silently out the small carriage window, lost in her own thoughts. Christine eyed her, but thought better than to disturb her silence. That Meg had promised to protect Christine's secrecy was enough.

"I do not want you to be mistaken, Christine. They are taking the matter quite seriously. They have been waiting for the excuse to arrest him since he arrived, apparently, and your refusal to help them has not halted their search." Joseph found himself looking at the Viscountess in an entirely new light. Yes, he had thought her intriguing upon their introduction, but never had he imagined that she was the same woman that once titillated the London society. The tale of the beautiful singer and the supposed monster had been on the tip of every gabbing tongue only a few years prior.

Christine shook her head, face bare of veil and only just lit with the moon's glow. "Why will they not leave him be?" she said sorrowfully, not looking at Joseph.

Joseph found himself wanting to say, "Well he did burn down the finest opera-house in Paris and kill several people and threaten the lives of many more, including you." He thought better of it. After all, Mister Claudin, though less than friendly, had never seemed a threat to him. In fact, Joseph had considered him a respectable man, even if the gentleman would not have agreed. Also, looking at the pained Viscountess de Chagny, Joseph found he could bring no more pain to her, not on this night. He grinned (if a bit hollowly), and said, "I think those Bobbies are simply determined to outshine the French police. Any chance to outshine the French, you see."

Christine just barely smiled. Beneath her bodice the Phantom's mask pressed against her skin.

* * *

"MERDE," Erik roared, pacing in the dark, dingy room. He had crossed the Thames by hired rowboat in the night, evading capture and securing a room at a disreputable boarding house in South Bank London, an area known best for its popularity with the less charming aspects of human society. Prostitutes answered his cry from the street below, cackling together as they propositioned the men who passed them. He had been reliving the last few hours again and again, working himself into an increasingly pitiable state of abject despair, and familiar rage.

He could hear her in his head, voice like a caress and words like a knife.

_If you cannot let this rage go, I ask you do not find me._

Erik felt the need to destroy the room, but there was nothing in it but a cot, and he would take no satisfaction in that. He needed drawings to burn, mirrors to smash, paintings to rip to shreds. He needed his dark cavern, the resonant chambers, the somber candelabras. He needed a pit as wretched as his thoughts, though, it occurred to him as he paused at the window to witness the garish circus of flesh in the street below, this was not so far off.

"Pretty face like yours I'd do it for half!" screeched a particularly offensive wench beneath the window. His hand instinctively went to his face, though he knew he could not be seen. He flinched as his palm met naked, twisted flesh.

"Merde," he repeated, quietly this time. He closed his eyes and thought of his mask, lying on the floor of his apartment. Christine would have fled hours ago. To where, he did not know. The empty socket of his grim façade stared up from the floor, mocking its owner, judging him. Erik felt another wave of despair crash through him as he recalled the circumstance by which his mask had been shed, her soft hand against his face—her softer mouth. He sunk to his knees, the raucous cries of the women outside like the cruel laughter and yells of the audience who had witnessed his most memorable unmasking to date. "Perhaps the second most memorable," he thought, "though also in her hands."

It pained him less, somehow, to think of that night than the night that was just ending. On London's jagged horizon, bright fingers of dawn spread across the sky like a hand opening. Old pain ached; this new pain smarted and burned.

_Christine…. Christine…_

His mind wandered helplessly back to her. Her hair lush and loose around her bare shoulders, pale skin luminous in the dim candlelight. Her wet lips, parted, waiting for his.

"Enough!" he growled, nails sinking into the already broken skin of his face. His curled the fingers of his other hand beneath the bandage and took perverse delight in the pain the motion incurred. Blood welled where his nails had pierced his cheek, warm and sticky in the uneven grooves of his flesh. He was suddenly thankful there was no mirror in the dank room. His hands fell to his lap, the blood on his fingertips bright in the darkness.

_Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair…_

Erik whispered the words, voice shaking. So familiar the chant, so bitter—his true lullaby.

_Down we plunge to the prison of my mind,_

_ Down that path into darkness deep as hell!_

He clenched his unbroken fist. Blood made his fingers slippery, and he could almost feel her hand in his grasp. She had stumbled on the uneven floor of the caverns, struggling weakly to escape him. His face had been bare then, too. She had just stolen his mask in the eyes of Paris, murdering the last shred of sanity within him. So young she had been, so purely beautiful and so completely without empathy. Her innocent questions had driven him to near madness—her complete inability to understand the oceans of suffering he had endured in a lifetime twice the length of her own the cruelest thing of all.

_ Why you ask was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place?_

_ Not for any mortal sin but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!_

Though he barely murmured the words to himself, no audience there to listen in the seedy room, he could feel the pain he had felt the first time he had flung the words at her. He had spit them like shards of glass, like barbs.

_ Hounded out by everyone,_

_ Met with hatred everywhere,_

There were tears on his bare face. He was louder now, not singing so much as speaking, chanting the words to the darkness.

_ No kind words from anyone,_

_ No compassion anywhere…_

He was yelling now. He stood in the center of the empty room with his hands hung in fists at his sides, shaking. How could she ask him to forget his rage, to forget a lifetime of suffering? How could he abandon the defiant rage that had so long kept him alive? Her ultimatum mocked him, invigorating his anger. It had been with him before she had first breathed air, first sung, first loved, his one companion.

_ Christine…_

_ Why? _

He screamed.

"WHY?"

The whores below had no answer.


	24. Tidings, Good and Ill

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-four: Tidings, Good and Ill**

Gaspard sat back in the finely wrought chair, body sinking into the cushioned upholstery. "A well deserved nap," he thought, an open copy of Gustave Flaubert's _Madame Bovary_ resting heavily across his lap. Seraphine had no real appreciation for literature, which Gaspard usually bemoaned. However, in the case of this particular novel, he was glad; he did not want Seraphine getting any ideas. He closed his eyes comfortably, hands folded across the cover of the formidable leather-bound book. His ears detected a commotion in the hallway outside the study, but he would not let that disturb him. "Seraphine tussling with the maids again," he thought, amused by the extent to which his wife had come to occupy the role as lady of the manor. "Poor girls," he mused as his mind began to drift into what was sure to be an excellent afternoon nap.

The door of the study slammed open (a considerable feat given the weight of its design). Gaspard groaned in exasperation, eyes still stubbornly shut. "Darling, whatever they've done surely cannot merit a beating, nor disturbing my nap."

"You seem to have settled in, Gaspard," a wry voice spoke. Gaspard's eyes snapped open. The Victomtess de Chagny stood before him, arms crossed but expression warm beneath her black veil. Seraphine barreled into the study in the lady's wake, face a study in irritation.

"Well just come right in, then!" she snapped.

Gaspard stared at the two women, unsure whether to be alarmed or amused. Seraphine fumed; Christine stood steadfast in her dark ensemble. Gaspard couldn't help but notice her worn appearance, and mourn the vibrant young woman he had briefly come to know in his master's absence. "The master!" Gaspard's mind practically screamed at him.

"Your trip was rather shorter than I'd anticipated, Vicomtess," he said quickly, suddenly agitated and eyeing the corners of the room. No white mask sneered at him from the shadows, but knowing Monsieur Claudin, that was not enough to convince him of the man's absence.

Detecting the alarm in his eyes, the warmth of Christine's expression waned. "Do not worry, Gaspard. Your tenure as lord of the manor has not ended," she said, staring at the unused piano in the corner. Dust coated it like a sheet. "Nor shall it in the foreseeable future."

Gaspard's feet hit the floor with a resounding thud. He carefully set the tome down on the Phantom's desk. He didn't know whether to heave a relieved sigh or a sorry one, looking at Christine's somber expression.

"Well I suppose that's good enough news, isn't it?" Seraphine said brusquely from the doorway. "Can't say I was aching to have that man back in here. Terrifies the maids, he does." At that, Gaspard raised an eyebrow, fixing his wife with a dubious expression over Christine's shoulder. "Don't know what we'd want him for. Doing just fine without him, I'd say."

Christine turned to look at Seraphine, who was now nervously fidgeting with the skirts of what Christine saw to be a rather expensive dress. Seraphine felt her gaze and scowled.

"The house is beautiful, Seraphine. You oversaw its completion, did you not?" Christine said. Gaspard tried very hard not to smile, for he could see the Vicomtess' compliment already warming his wife's features. Easy to rile, easier to please.

"I did, yes. And he should be glad of it! Leaving that idiot Fabrice in charge. We'd have no staircase at all! Just a ladder propped up in the entry." Seraphine flushed, secretly relishing the image of her sinister master clamoring up a ladder every time he wanted to visit the upstairs. "Don't think Monsieur Claudin would've taken to that. Can't imagine such a gentleman scaling walls in those smart suits of his."

Christine silently disagreed.

Gaspard, sensing some inexplicable feminine truce had been reached, stood, clapping his hands together. "Well then! Welcome back to Paris, Vicomtess. How can I be of service?"

Christine grinned. "Actually, it's rather your wife I was hoping to beg the help of."

* * *

The barge's captain, Felix York, frowned into the cold breeze coming off the channel. "Some spring, eh?" he grunted to his second, who grunted in retort. While Britain's weather wasn't typically applauded, spring was usually at least slightly less disagreeable. The barge creaked and moaned, its coal smoke and scum stained sides rocking in the cold water. Captain York turned, the long sides of his graying handlebar mustache wriggling in the sea breeze like dog's ears. "You take over, eh? Have a smoke, I will." His comrade grunted in reply, seizing the wheel.

Felix strode from the deck, one meaty hand scrabbling in the pockets of his grease-stained overcoat for his tobacco pipe. He found nothing but biscuit crumbs so small they weren't even worth consuming. Grumbling, he descended into the barge's cargo hold, sure to find his beloved pipe there. As he opened the heavy door to the hold he stopped. In the darkness, a sound like fast footsteps, heavy and purposeful. "Big to be a rat, that," he said beneath his breath, mustache quivering. The boat rocked gently, the air silent now but for the sounds of the English Channel slapping the hull and the creaking of the worn transport. Still, the darkness of the hold before him set his teeth on edge; a feeling of unease crept up his spine. "Not in there, is it?" he said aloud to the hold with false bravado, voice resounding eerily in the metal chamber. Captain York, a man not easily shaken after many thankless years of fording the strip of salty water between Great Britain and the north of France, a passage known for both its political and meteorological unrest, shut the door to the hold, sliding the rusted metal latch back into place. Felix ascended, trying to shake the queer feeling of dread that clung about him.

In the hold, Erik relaxed his grip on the heavy coil of rope and sat back against the sacks of flour. Healing hand against his face, he closed his eyes. The dented metal walls about him moaned and quaked.

* * *

The carriage shuddered to a halt at the base of the broad, curving steps leading to the doorway of the Opera Populaire.

"Look, Maman!" Meg gushed, face thrust out of the carriage window. Madame Giry yanked her back into her seat. As Meg's abundant curls were swept out of the way of the window, Antoinette saw what her vivacious daughter had been gushing over. She brought her cane to the floor of the carriage with a startling bang.

"Mon Dieu!" she breathed.

The tiny carriage door swung open, revealing the Vicomtess de Chagny. Smartly dressed and face alight, Christine looked so very little like the bedraggled, bruised creature that had slunk back from London a few months since (with an equally bedraggled Meg in tow) that Madame Giry could scarcely believe it was her. "Well?" Christine demanded, offering her hand. She took it, finding Christine's grip surprisingly strong through her gloves. "What do you think?"

Madame Giry had to steady herself against Christine as she stared up at the Opera Populaire, momentary vertigo seizing her as her eyes followed the banks restored windows and alabaster walls to the roofline. No more stains of fire or hollow, gaping window frames. No skeletal palace to the past's transgressions. But also, no broad-winged angels or glittering stained glass. No delicately feminine light fixtures or gold filigree. The effect was plainly majestic—an elegant building, no longer as festooned and primped as La Carlotta. It was a disarmingly spare version of what was one the gilded lily of Paris.

"You have finished the reconstruction?" Madame Giry asked softly, the sight of the building's new form filling her with both awe and a stirring solemnity.

"With help, soon," Christine said, gesturing to the grand doorway. "Come."

Seraphine's bellowing voice greeted them as they entered the foyer. "Mon Dieu! You call yourself a carpenter?" Several plaster-dust coated men rushed by Meg, Antoinette, and the Vicomtess, shoulders laden with rolls of what used to be fine floral wallpaper and shards of ornately carved molding. They nodded as they passed. Christine smiled at Gaspard, who appeared out from under a huge tangle of what was once a particularly memorable chandelier. At the top of the broad marble staircase, Seraphine stood feet planted firmly and hands on hips, facing off with a quaking Fabrice.

"Bonjour Seraphine," Christine said, a grin flickering in the corners of her mouth. At the sound of her voice the portly carpenter turned, words of thanks in his wide eyes. Christine nodded to him and turned to her guests. "Madame Giry, Meg, you remember Seraphine? She has taken over as my contractor for the Opera Populaire."

"…As contractor?" Madame Giry repeated, taken aback.

"Oui." Christine scaled the staircase and placed a hand on Seraphine's shoulders. "She seemed the most qualified to undertake the project I had in mind." Gesturing for the Giry's observe the building, Christine turned to consult with Seraphine. Fabrice had already disappeared with surprising stealth, no doubt seeking a new hiding place from Seraphine's wrath.

Madame Giry and Meg wandered up the marble steps, the clinking of their worn heels against the white floor like stones underwater. Antoinette stopped at the broad workman's table standing on the first floor of the grand staircase, idly examining the dusty blueprints. Meg scampered off ahead. Madame Giry watched her flight, pleased to see her daughter enthusiastic, however momentarily. The girl's mood had turned inexplicably black since her return from Londres; her mother found her much altered. She scarcely bothered even to practice her ballet anymore. Clucking softly, Madame Giry turned her attention back to the blueprints before her. She reached out a finger to trace the smooth pencil lines on the pages, marveling at the elegant hand of whatever person had penned them. It was all too familiar, she suddenly realized. Her eyes flew to the corner of the page, seeking the signature she knew would be there: OG, scrawled in an alarmingly memorable hand, the ink blood red. Antoinette gaped. She spun round to take in the full effect of the great room, eyes tracing the stark walls and arching windows, newly visible since stripped of the unnecessary opulence that had once distracted from the opera house's true form. It was beautiful; it was Erik.

Antoinette had often mused over the years about the strangeness of Erik's underground lair. The cavernous estate, however memorable, had always seemed somewhat at odds with what she had long thought of as her sinister friend's personal taste. The Opera Ghost's garb, however ominous, was usually simple and refined, the carefully tailored black trousers and vest in perfect contrast to the man's most striking feature: the mask. The Phantom's mask was, Antoinette thought, the purest expression of Erik's taste. Powerful, simple, elegant. By comparison, the heavy carpet and tapestries and the ornate candelabras had always seemed garish, more a counterpart to the grisly persona he embodied at the masquerade than his everyday self. And his music, his preference for the more modern, spare style of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Dramatic, yes. Dark, certainly. A lavish or frivolous spectacle, no.

"This," thought Madame Giry, "is his true vision."

She walked to Christine, who stood now at the top step of the staircase, eyes trained out the windows. She stared at the Parisian skyline, once concealed from view by colored glass and embroidered tapestries. "Where did you find the plans, Christine?" Madame Giry said kindly, placing an uncommonly gentle hand on her ward's slim shoulder.

"He left them at the Claudin estate. I found them before I left to—before I went back to the Maison de Chagny. Seraphine—well—she's followed his plans before," Christine said quietly.

"Oui. I see," Antoinette replied. "I thank you for showing me."

Christine turned back to face Madame Giry, eyes mischievous. "That was not the only reason I begged audience with you, Madame Giry." Antoinette cocked her head, curious now. "You see, I would like to ask a favor of you."

* * *

The conductor stammered as he thanked them—the passengers of his train. Erik watched him from the small window of his private car, waiting. The trip across the border of France should not have been a difficult one, but for his current status as an enemy of the state—as the Opera Ghost, bitter and full of rage.

_And if you cannot let this rage go, I ask you do not find me._

He winced, the wound fast aging but deep, infected beneath his chill surface. He eyed the conductor from his train car—a young man, barely twenty. His hair fell long and blonde; it would have swept about his shoulders but for the tie he had in it—the mark of his service to the railroad company beneath the odd conductor's cap he wore. "If not for the tie," Erik thought, "he would look like Raoul." Rage, again, wove the intricate passages of his veins. He impulsively clenched his hand and winced, for it was not yet healed. Still, the bones of his long fingers answered his mind's call only with pain.

_You stubborn fool, you may never play again! Not the piano, the organ, the violin, or whatever other instruments you can secretly play! Dear God, Erik, you can't say that doesn't matter!_

But it had been long, so long, since his fingertips had caressed the ivory keys of a piano, or called forth the mournful bellows of an organ. He tried to bend the fingers of his hand again, and again they could not, their stiffness reinforced by pain's rebuttal. "She was it," he realized numbly. "Christine was the last instrument I will ever attempt to play."

The pain of that wound was worse, and he steeled himself against what memories would come, flooding the fortress of his mind with battalions of _her_, nude and lithe against his body. His mind began to slip away into that place, the region of his reminiscence he could barely stand to tread, where in the candlelight of a London apartment he pressed himself against her flesh, hard, and she looked at him with only desire. He watched, enraptured, as he forcefully thrust himself against her, his loathsome body betraying his desire for her, and she only arched against him, raking her long fingernails up the length of his exposed spine. He could feel Christine's wetness—her inexplicable desire. Her deep eyes met with his and he saw there, like the first rippling of bubbles in a near-boiling pot of water, what his future might be. And it felt like burning within him.

Wrenching himself from the blissful past, Erik refocused, near intoxicated by the memory he had so often relived. He struggled to concentrate on the task at hand—the conductor—gatekeeper to his escape from France.

* * *

_Dear Monsieur Evans,_

_ I fear you may find this correspondence an impertinence, but necessity bade me ignore custom. I hope this letter finds you well, monsieur, for it has been long since our previous contact. The Vicomtess de Chagny and I were returned safely to Paris. I know that your encounters with our party in Londres likely alarmed you—the last evening we spent there was no doubt as shocking for you as it was for me. Given the condition of my mistress when she was found, I was confident that our return to France was right. Now I find I have my doubts. Though the Vicomtess de Chagny speaks none on the matter, my dear friend seems set on the past. Her current pursuit—the restoration of that opera house which you may have read of in the papers: the Opera Populaire. I cannot help but feel that this new devotion to this project may be the fruit of her separation from said questionable gentleman. The culprits—well, dear sir, I fear it is us who set the law upon him, unjustly or not. Given this, my sense of overwhelming guilt has motivated this contact with you. I wonder, have you seen Monsieur Claudin? A silly question perhaps, but I feel, at this point, as though I owe it to her. Mistress of mine she may be, but friend and sister she was first. Please send word. I feel any indication as to his whereabouts may provide her with some relief, though she would never admit it._

_ Sincèrement,_

_ Marguerite Giry_

Mister Evans felt a flush come to his cheeks unbidden at the mere sight of her signature scribbled messily on parchment, and thanked God for his muttonchops, like great furry shields against the eyes of the other club members. Nervously fingering the brim of his top hat, Joseph tried in vain not to sink into the pit of flighty remembrance he now labeled Mademoiselle Giry. No sooner had he spied her barely legible script than spirits of reminiscence clouded his mind, all decked with heads of cheery golden curls. Eerie, really, given that half of them looked like his father, lost to smallpox, and the other, his older brother, lost to a foolish duel. Neither had had golden curls. This fact did little to comfort him.

She had been so radiant, so full of youth and spirit and, admittedly, vulgarity. Marguerite Giry had been almost astonishingly natural, a breath of fresh air in a sky of pollution—woman after woman of temptingly reputable birth without a scrap of personality, all ironed out, all bleached clean. By comparison Mademoiselle Giry was a veritable gypsy caravan of intrigue, vivacious and beguilingly ignorant to the scandalous gossip that followed her and missus everywhere they went. Yes, the gentleman had his regrets where the young lady was concerned. With that thought still in mind, Joseph Evans rose from his seat and purposefully placed his hat on his head. "Gentlemen," he said formally, nodding to his distinguished brethren at the Crichton Club. Sweeping out of the double doors into the dark London street, Joseph grinned a bit foolishly. He had a young lady to impress. He had a phantom to chase.

* * *

"Tickets, s'il vous plaît!" the young conductor called, banging one fist against the private car's wooden door. The velvet curtain drawn across the window on the inside prevented him from seeing the car's interior, and he found he was curious. If the doorway and curtain were any indication, the car was lavish, and its owner wealthy. There was no record as to the identity of the train car's owner; it had been hitched to the passenger train in the French port of Dunkerque and was now fast approaching the border of Belgique.

He rapped his knuckles once more against the door.

The curtain opened quickly, just one corner of the fabric pulled away, and was shut again so fast that the young conductor managed to see nothing at all but a flash of clean white.

"I instructed that I was not to be disturbed," a deep voice rumbled from behind the door.

"I know, monsieur, I apologize, but it is our policy to check all tickets before crossing the border into la Belgique. No exceptions," the conductor said nervously. The voice from behind the door was menacing, and he had not long held his position as conductor. He could not afford to offend one of the train company's wealthier patrons.

"Very well," the voice snapped. The conductor listened to the sound of a metal lock sliding open, and then the door swung open an inch. A voice from within beckoned. "Well, come in, if you insist!"

The conductor cleared his throat, slipping through the cubby-like doorway sideways. The light within the train car was ominously dim; all the rich curtains had been pulled shut as if to ward out the new spring's bright light. The wealthy patron was nowhere to be seen. The conductor spun about, confused. He saw no man, nor any place that he might conceal himself. He was also surprised that while the train car had obviously been an elegant space at one time, it was no longer. It was cavernous, a long narrow space scattered with torn parchment and stained with candle wax and the marks of fire. The only furniture (the only thing that could still be called furniture) was a massive mahogany desk at the far end, though it was barely discernible beneath stacks of heavy books and more torn parchment. The conductor began to walk towards it, forgetting himself. The door behind him slammed shut and he spun around, only to find a long knife held to his throat by a person he could not see, for he was being held from behind. The conductor sensed his strength, and found he was terrified.

"I am—I am sorry, monsieur. I just need to see your ticket, monsieur," he stammered, blade tickling his jugular as he swallowed nervously.

A hand appeared abruptly before him, leather-clad and long fingered. The fingers produced a train ticket from seemingly nowhere. The conductor whispered, "I—I need to, to punch it," raising his hand to show the silver punch key in his shaking, white-gloved fist.

"Go on," the voice rumbled.

The conductor reached up and managed to control his shaking enough to awkwardly punch a hole in the ticket his assailant held before him.

"Merci, monsieur. Merci beaucoup."

And as quickly as he had been made a captive he was released. The conductor did not turn; he was too terrified to see the forceful creature that had made him fear for his life. A trickle of warm blood made its way down his throat, staining the high white collar of his uniform. "Merci," he said again, practically leaping through the doorway, back into light. He turned to close it, only to have it slam shut. He saw, in the second before it closed, however, the gleaming white mask and dark eye of his captor, lit brightly by the spring light rushing in the windows of the passenger car. And then, the door was shut.

The conductor stood a moment, staring at the door in disbelief. He could barely trust his eyes, though he knew what he had seen all too well. Shaking himself, he brought a finger to his bloody throat and then stared at it—the red blood staining the tip of his white glove. He turned, leaving the door behind him.

The train crossed into Belgium in darkness, and in the morning, when the young conductor again made his rounds, he found the private train car gone, and almost fainted out of relief.

* * *

Christine considered herself rather an expert on the Opera Populaire at this point. The underground passages and eerie, secluded rooms were no longer a mystery. The last reconstruction crews pounding away in the theater above, the widowed Vicomtess de Chagny gathered her skirts about her and descended into the underworld. She had long since abandoned the long, watery trek to the Phantom's lair; she now favored what she suspected the Phantom himself had long used: a passageway, stone laden and dark, beginning in the old, unused dressing rooms against the building's backside and ending on the ground floor of what had once been his home. She suspected a mirror had once concealed it from her view all those years ago, when she stood frightened and confused in a wedding dress.

"Not so mysterious now, Phantom," she thought, the light from a flickering candle all she needed to navigate the dark labyrinth that had once terrified her so. Surely planting her feet as she walked, Christine felt stronger than she had in years—since she was just a dancer on the stage, twirling, unaware of the Vicomte de Chagny's gaze.

Since her return from London six months prior, Christine had made the journey to the Phantom's lair almost weekly, unsure what she was looking for. She did not expect Erik to reappear there; no—in the months since she had last seen him she had accepted that it was likely he would never return from wherever he had fled. To ask him to let go of his anger, rooted so deeply in the person who he was, may have been a request too outlandish, too demanding for him to ever comply.

Christine reached the cavern, stopping to light a nearby candelabra's near-spent candles with her flame. Glass crackled beneath her feet. The flickering light from the candelabra revealed what it always did: the lair, just as it had been left years ago. Dustier, now perhaps, but almost unnervingly preserved. The organ still stood, keys exposed and swathed in a thick layer of dust. Christine idly pressed her finger down on one of the keys, and the sound it rewarded her with was more of a breathy groan than a note of song.

When she had first returned to France this place was a refuge for her sorrow—an underground palace to her dashed hopes and the bitter past. She had sat long on the edge of the swan bed, sobbing like a child. No longer, though. She caught her own reflection in one of the many half-shattered mirrors bordering the main floor of the resonant hall, and smiled a bit. The face that greeted her was no longer that of a child; she truly felt like a woman for the first time in her life. The Opera Ghost had loved her as a frivolous child. Raoul had loved her as a captive and a specter; by the time they were married she had little in common with the girl in the pink dress he had gaily danced with at the masquerade. And Erik, well. Erik could not, it would seem, love her at all, so confined he was to his grief and rage. But in his arms on the last night she had seen him she had felt something awaken in her, a nameless thing that in his absence had blossomed and grown and filled her with strength. She did not need another's love to make her a woman any longer. She was her own, neither ingénue nor wandering child.

Christine felt no need to cry, looking at the ruined wonderland about her. She stopped to extinguish the withered candles and exited the cavern through the passage she had come. She smiled slightly as she made her way back to the light, knowing she would not need to return to Phantom's underworld again.


	25. Pursuits

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-five: Pursuits**

Christine woke with a start, fistfuls of bed linen twisted in each hand. She relaxed her grip. In her dream she had been holding reins, whipping them sharply against the withers of the tensing horseflesh beneath her. She had been chasing him, a black spot on the horizon, dark cape whipping against the wind to reveal a flash of white: the mask. Every night she dreamed the same dream, and pursued the same masked phantom to no avail. She rode every night knowing that she would never catch him even as she dreamt; she knew now that even in dreams some things were impossible. Christine rose, shaking the last remnants of her dream from her vision. Her bedroom at the Maison de Chagny presented itself before her, lustrous and damning. She rose, slipping on a robe and running one hand through the wild nest of curls her restless sleep had arranged for her. Without so much as a glance in the mirror, the widowed Vicomtess strode from her chambers in the direction of the kitchen.

"Good morning, Antoinette," Christine said, grinning at the sight of the once intimidating ballet mistress wrapped in an overlarge silk robe, peering at a newspaper through a pair of spectacles dangling precariously from the end of her thin nose. Without looking up from her reading, Madame Giry nodded to the still-steaming pot of tea in the center of the kitchen table, and an empty teacup beside it. Pouring herself a cup of tea, Christine glanced at the older woman. "Any sign of Meg yet?" she asked delicately, blowing on the steaming liquid. Madame Giry's eyes paused in their movement across the newsprint. She shook her head, No. Christine sipped her tea, burning her tongue.

They were both concerned about Meg, whose spirits had shown little sign of improvement in the months since their return from London. Hoping to both cheer Meg and ease Antoinette's financial situation, Christine had invited the pair to move into the now empty de Chagny house. Secretly, this invitation had been as much for her sake as for the sake of her friends; the house was still as simultaneously enormous and restrictive as Christine had found it as a newlywed. Raoul's death had done nothing to lighten its atmosphere, and Christine was thankful to her friends for even the sound of their feet against the hardwood floors. Anything to disrupt the silence. It also proved convenient for Madame Giry and Christine's business; at Christine's request, the former ballet mistress had agreed to participate in the Opera Populaire's reopening, an event planned for a mere five months away. While Erik had inadvertently left Christine all the guidance and assistance she needed concerning the physical refurbishing of the opera house, where the entertainment was concerned he had left her neither, and she had found herself rather at a loss. With Madame Giry's experience in the business, Christine had been able to assemble some of the personnel necessary to run an opera house and perform in its operas, but she was still without a diva. Christine sighed into her cup, eliciting no response from Madame Giry.

Both women raised their heads (Christine from her cup, Antoinette from her paper) at the sound of light footsteps in the hall. The footfalls passed the kitchen doorway, continuing on through the house. A moment of silence, and then the sound of footsteps again, passing by the door. Christine cleared her throat, and the footsteps halted. "Meg, dear? Was there anything in the post?"

"No," came Meg's softly spoken answer from the hall, followed only by the sounds of her light footsteps receding into silence.

Christine knew the man whose correspondence Meg so diligently checked for. Joseph Evans had been amiable, to be sure, and Christine could not help but be slightly surprised that Meg had not yet received word from him. In fact, she was rather surprised that the energetic young man hadn't shown up on their doorstep, obscenely bejeweled wedding ring and absurd bouquet of roses in hand, grinning beneath his distasteful top hat. But no, over a half year had past, and still no word. She watched Meg knowingly, all too familiar with the tell-tale redness in her friend's eyes or paleness of her skin to guess that such symptoms were born of anything but hours of weeping. Secretly, ever so secretly, Christine tired of Meg's sorrow. In the time since their return she had learned that no good that could be had could be got through crying, nor mourning, nor lamentation. Christine put her elbow in the grease and shoulders to the grindstone, working as she had never worked. As a dancer she had been physically conditioned, but now, as proprietress and overseer of the Opera Populaire, she felt newly formidable. Leanness replaced waifishness and shrewdness murdered self-doubt. Christine sometimes mused that given a heavy cane, she could now intimidate with the likes of Madame Giry despite the woman's seniority, and natural predisposition to all that was scathing.

Unbeknownst to the young woman, Madame Giry eyed Christine from over the top of her smudged newspaper. The Vicomtess stared blithely into space, the expression a welcome divergence from the looks of pain and misery that had so often colored the young woman's beautiful visage in the years of their acquaintance. No, Christine was much improved. Madame Giry sometimes thought she detected something like contentment in the air of her ward turned hostess. Meg had been reticent about the events of their last night in London, but between the two girls the shrewd Madame had pieced together an idea of the rather scandalous story. When Christine had stepped off the packet boat, still-gleeful Margeurite in tow, the yellowing bruises gracing her throat had not gone undetected by the woman who had raised her. Antoinette knew without doubt whose slender fingers had left such muddy impressions upon Christine's fair skin, and knew also the nature of the wild-eyed look about the girl. She had tactfully refrained from comment, and between the three residents of the Maison de Chagny not a one had mentioned the Phantom of the Opera.

Still, Antoinette conceded to the occasional solo visit to the Opera Ghost's ruined lair to sate her own foolish curiosity. She had been surprised, the first time, to find it had not felt the hand of Christine's energetic reconstruction crews; it was exactly as it had been the night she had visited the Opera Ghost, cloying note in hand: _Give her time._ It seemed foolish now, to have thought that it was Christine that had needed time. Experience now revealed that perhaps, all along, at had been the Phantom himself who was in need of some three, four years to admit his own passion. It seemed Erik's stubbornness yielded to no adversary. Madame Giry glanced at Christine. Odd, after so much time, to discover a similarly fierce stubbornness in the woman Erik had loved. Indeed, the two seemed more alike all the time, a trend Madame Giry found both alarming and intriguing. Christine seemed to have inherited the Phantom's talent for appearing and disappearing, ghost-like and silent. She herself had been startled by the girl on more than one occasion, for Christine seemed to be forever appearing from nowhere before abruptly vanishing to nowhere. She even seemed to find a perverse pleasure in it, not unlike the man whose footsteps she now haunted.

"Stupid man," Madame Giry thought, sipping her tea. A black and white rendering of the newly restored Opera Populaire dominated the front page of the paper she held, resplendent beneath the boldface lettering: "**Infamous Opera house to Reopen!**" Antoinette pursed her lips, thinking, "If only you could see what she has done for you."

* * *

Mister Joseph Evans was becoming accustomed to foreign travel, though not the food. Frowning at the large, steaming black pot of purply mussels that had just been deposited on the table in front of him, he sighed heavily. "Hardly fish and chips, is it?" he grumbled. As he eyed the shellfish with distaste, he had to admit, Belgium's chips were rather good, and the chocolate was fantastic. He'd been gorging himself on milk chocolate seashells for days, so often so that the local chocolaterie owners had taken to greeting him by name. It was not chocolate that had brought him to Belgium, however, and he was beginning to feel a bit frustrated (and soft about the middle.) Tracking Monsieur Claudin this far had been no mean feat; Mister Evans was beginning to feel thankful that he had a large fortune besides the one he had already spent tipping ship's captains and paying off young train conductors.

That had been money well spent. The young train conductor had been the first who could claim to having actually laid eyes upon the sinister Opera Ghost. Until then Joseph had been following leads that reeked of misinformation: the here say of some rather disreputable young women in the South Bank of London… the paranoid ramblings a particularly gruff barge captain…

Prying apart a mussel shell and wincing at the unappetizing mess within before giving up on the exercise entirely, Joseph glanced at his pocket watch. "Late," he muttered. The man he was supposed to be meeting with had chosen the roadside café in Bruges, a fact which already had Mister Evans doubting whether he was to be trusted as a source.

Quite without warning a portly, extremely nervous looking man fell into the chair opposite Joseph's seat. He was older and sweating profusely beneath his dirty, bent hat.

"Mister Evans?" he said in the oddly accented English of a true Flemish speaker.

"Yes, hello, how do you do?" Joseph said, feigning pleasantry to avoid coming off as desperate for information as he was feeling. The man nodded, waving off Joseph's attempts at congeniality with a plump, hairy hand. He leaned in, dark eyes narrowed. Joseph suddenly felt intensely unseemly, and loved it.

"You are… looking for a masked man?" the man asked quietly, eyes darting over the young Englishman's face from beneath an impressive pair of black eyebrows.

"Yes, that's right." Joseph refused to be excited yet. He had been misled too many times.

"Hair like pitch? Very tall?"

"Yes."

"White mask like this?" The stranger held one pudgy hand to the right side of his face, obscuring his flesh from his lips to his forehead.

"Yes! That's right!" Joseph was excited now in spite of his reservations. This man's description of Monsieur Claudin was the most complete he had gotten as of yet, from any source.

"I know this man. I made business with him. He stayed at my inn," he said, gesturing over his shoulder to indicate a rather run-down building facing the square, "for almost a week."

"When?" Joseph asked, eyes wide.

"A month ago now, maybe more. I do not keep records, see?"

Joseph sat back in his chair in awe. A mere month since Monsieur Claudin had been in Bruges, assuming he had in fact left the city.

"I only saw the man twice, but that is a man you remember, no?" The innkeeper was eyeing Joseph's nearly untouched steamer of mussels with rapt interest. Joseph gestured for the man to help himself, and watched with vague disgust as the little man proceeded to extract the gummy flesh from the first mussel he could reach and shove it, dripping, into his mouth.

"You say you saw him twice?' This seemed almost too good to believe, to find a man who had seen Monsieur Claudin not once, but twice, after months of nothing but glimpses and gossip. The innkeeper nodded, patting his mouth with a blue-checked napkin.

"He checked into the inn in the middle of the night. Woke me up banging on the door, acting as if the devil himself was following him. Rude, but plenty of money, so I let him stay." The innkeeper paused, eyeing Joseph. "You know this man?"

Mister Evans stifled a chuckle. "Well, yes, I suppose."

"Why does he wear the mask?"

"I never asked," Joseph said thoughtfully. To him the mask had always been an object of delight—a macabre diversion in a numbingly gentile, painfully boring world.

The innkeeper nodded, accepting this.

Joseph asked, "And the second time?"

"Ran into him when he was on his way out. Didn't seem pleased to have been seen. Middle of the night again—I was just checking the halls. Thought I heard something. Not a place some goings on, you know?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively. Looking over his shoulder at the ramshackle inn, all crumbling bricks and weather-chipped paint, Mister Evans had a hard time believing this. "Paid handsomely. All francs, but I'm not one to complain."

"Do you know where he was headed?" Joseph knew it was almost too much to hope, that this man should hold such valuable information.

"Funny you should ask. The man himself didn't say a word about it, but after he left, some odd things happened." The innkeeper leaned forward, glancing around as if he expected eavesdroppers lingering on every word. "Not two weeks after he'd left, but the police come to visit. They don't visit often, see, reputable establishment as my inn. They had some odd queries—never mentioned the mask, but kept on about any 'odd clients' I had encountered. Told them what I knew, which didn't seem to please them much. The next day I'm here enjoying some of these lovely darlings," he said, almost cooing at the pot of mussels, "talking to a friend of mine who works down at the train yard. He tells me about this fancy private car that's been stored there, off limits to all the crew. Says the owner paid francs to have it left be. A week it stands there, no sign of life, when one night it disappears completely."

Joseph pressed: "And?"

"Same night as a freight train heading across the border into Germany leaves. 'Destination: Russia,' my friend says."

Mister Evans stood abruptly, whipping his fashionable coat over his shoulders and top hat to his head as he slammed a large handful of coins on the café table. "Thank you!" he yelled over his shoulder, already halfway across the square. He was practically running, already calculating in his head the time it would take him to assemble his luggage and make it to the train station. Behind him, the fat little man was sliding the coins into his cupped palm.

* * *

Erik stared at the devastated interior of his private car without pleasure; though its destruction had bought him a few moments of gratification, such distraction was fleeting. He was incapable of anything but petty destruction any longer, it seemed. For years he had attempted to remedy his feelings of solitude with his creative endeavors: music, architectural design, language… and, of course, his greatest project, an investment of over a decade from the time she arrived at the Opera Populaire, orphaned and pathetic, to when she fled its chasms: Christine. She had been so young upon her unexpected arrival in his life, so harmless—a frightened child, huddled in her narrow cot in the theater dormitories while she cried for her father. What had moved him to sing to her, then? Sympathy did not come easily to the Phantom of the Opera, so rarely had it been shown to him in his forty-odd years of life. No, it was a foreign thing. It crept up upon him as he stared at the little girl from the rafters, cloaked by darkness. He sang, and she brightened. Never had he pleased another, and he soon found the experience addictive. He returned thenceforth to the rafters, ready to sing to her, the orphan child, Christine. So innocent was the instrument of his tragic demise that he never suspected her until it was too late to resist her, and too late to save himself the inevitable torment that would come from loving something so beautiful. Her budding flesh hid the omens of tragedy, but he had not seen the signs, so entranced was he by the young woman unexpectedly emerging from the chrysalis of childhood. Erik had no practice at love, and in his innocence failed to recognize the precipice he was perched at the very edge of until he had bodily fallen into it, helpless to escape her.

When had it happened? Erik had spent many hours trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his affection for Christine had turned into something altogether darker. Her youth at first had provided enough of a deterrent to prevent him from looking at her in that light, and even after her age was no obstacle he had clung to reason. For she was all that was good and innocent and beautiful, and he knew himself to be wretched. But as childhood prettiness gave way to true beauty, he found himself slipping. He caught himself watching her from the shadows long after their lessons were done—in the moments she thought herself alone. He had traced the elegant lines of her neck and the graceful movements of her body beneath her cheap clothes, staring, unable to look away. His ardor repulsed him; his life had afforded him more pain than pleasure, and he had never bothered to yearn for a woman's touch, too sure had he been that he should never experience such intimacy. As she grew he found himself waking in darkness, tortured by carnal fantasy to the point where he feared to shut his eyes, that he might be tortured again by that which he could never know. And so a fatherly affection gave way to lust, and then love, and the Phantom felt himself slipping inexorably towards madness.

It seemed so long ago now that Erik could almost believe that he had been born loving her. Until the night she had first laid her lips against his, desperate and manipulative, he could have denied to himself that his feelings for her were nothing but covetous. After, he had come to know all too well the depth of his infatuation with Christine. It was a thing time could not alter, nor distance.

The Russian landscape was desolate outside the train car window, monotonous but for the rare appearance of the occasional fur clad pleasant or wind-twisted tree. Still, it was an improvement. A week on the South Bank of the Thames had proven quite enough for Erik. The daze of drunken rage and pitiable sorrow had only lifted once he had escaped France, avoiding almost all detection but for the one regrettable encounter with an idiotic train conductor. But for that incident, train travel had proven advantageous. He had acquired the private car through a somewhat suspect business arrangement involving a third party, which had been particularly appealing given he would never have to meet with anyone. His façade was too memorable to risk its being seen. The new mask had been easily obtained, though Erik mourned the repeated loss of his original. Perhaps it was for the best, he thought, flinching as he recalled the circumstances by which he had been forced the leave it behind. His broken fingers had slowly mended, remembered only by a flickering ache in the joints, but other things, less easily healed things, had not.

Odd, to be running with no destination in mind. Erik could not shake the suspicion that he was being pursued, and not only be the police (French or British—he could not be sure.) Some unnamed menace flickered in the corners of his sight, trailing him. Not to be undone, the Phantom often doubled back on his own path of flight, retracing his footprints before weaving sideways again, endlessly running. He would not be caged again, by the police or any other. And so, through no real design of his own, Erik had crossed the border into Russia. And still, he could not elude Christine. She followed him everywhere: never to be evaded or escaped, she was ever present.

Erik raised his hand to his face, lightly tracing the corners of his eyes and mouth with his fingertips. He had been captured, in one respect. Time, after so long pursuing him, had finally trapped him. Wrinkles wrote shallow pathways in flesh that was smooth, once the grave counterpoint to his sickening deformity. And in his dark hair, a streak of steely gray, running from his temple to the nape of his neck like a ribbon. This evidence of his own mortality did little to alarm the Phantom; he had never valued his own life much, and had treaded the thin mortal line without fear many times in the decades since his birth. But the time's hand upon his own skin made him think of how it would someday visit another's, or perhaps already had.

"Christine." he mused. "Has time visited her as well?" She had already lived a full lifetime's worth of pain, he knew, and thanks in no small part to her Angel. In his dreams she appeared shrouded in black, walking the empty pathways of the cemetery in which he had once visited her. Wandering child no longer, she grew only frailer and weaker as the stone angels seemed to grow around her, wingtips pressing ever further into the sky and evergreen faces mocking her fading beauty. She would visit the graves of her husband and her father, biding the time until she would eventually visit her own grave, and be placed beside them in the cold earth. Her face was always obscured beneath a mourning veil, and she never sang or laughed; she was left in solitude to mourn those she had loved and lost. Erik woke from these dreams shaking in a bed sodden with his sweat, sheets twisted about him like ropes. He no longer played the piano nor composed nor sang; devastation was the only occupation left to him and so he tore his train car apart, shredding the fine tapestries and splintering the ornate molding until he had nothing left to damage. And soon he was left with only his memories to entertain him, trapped for long hours with only the specters from his awful dreams to accompany him. He imagined her often, white weaving its path in her dark hair, age clouding and changing the fine features he had memorized a thousand times over. He sometimes allowed himself, for a mere moment, to imagine her inevitable death.

Erik clenched his fists, only to open them, startled by the feeling of her slender throat in his grip. "Merde," he cursed, bringing down one fist on his knee so hard he swore he could feel the blood seeping into the flesh of his thigh, black. The icy sea whipped past in the cloudy glass window. It had been weeks since Erik had spoken a word to anyone but himself—the innkeeper in Bruges, and before that, the young man on the train. He had not murdered the young train conductor, Raoul doppelganger though he had been. The foolish boy had walked directly into the Phantom's den, his mere presence a threat to Erik's flight. And yet, he could not bring himself to kill him, to slice his throat and let him bleed out. Erik had let the boy go, endangering his own freedom in the process. When the door to the private car had shut and the Phantom realized he had unwittingly given the boy a glimpse of his memorable, mask-clad face he damned himself for the mercy he had shown. "Why couldn't I kill the boy?" he had often asked himself in the weeks since. He had no answer but that something, some small, unknown thing inside him had changed the night Christine had lay in his arms, a willing partner to his dark lust. The Phantom of the Opera found he no longer had murder in his heart.


	26. Unexpected Places

_First, a note: this story has been a long time in the works, and has been on several long (very long) hiatuses since its start in 2005. I'm going to come out and say that I have every intention of finishing _Resonance_, and hope that some of you lovelies out there have every intention of reading it when I do. Anyway, thanks to the readers (old and new), and especially to those who have taken the time to review and encourage over the years._

_**Resonance**_** by sheshakes**

**Chapter Twenty-six: Unexpected Places**

Christine raised one hand to silence the poor creature standing at center stage, cutting her off mid song. "Merci beaucoup. That is all." The girl nodded, shoulders fallen.

As she slunk offstage, Madame Giry leaned towards Christine, stage-whispering, "Mon Dieu. La Carlotta would be preferable to that." Christine shushed her half-heartedly, watching the dejected girl drag herself towards the wings. She dipped her quill in the ink pot, sighing aloud.

"You could sing," Madame Giry said with feigned nonchalance, her heavy cane thumping against the stage floor as yet another in a long day of supposed-diva ducked behind the curtains.

Christine laughed abruptly in response, deftly striking the girl's name from the list laid on the table before her. "Surely you cannot be serious," she said, surveying the full page of crossed off names soon to be added to a large stack of similar pages similarly inked. Christine closed her eyes as from the wings could be heard the sound of badly stifled weeping, and Madame Giry brought her cane down with a resounding thwack. Silence prevailed. Christine grinned and opened her eyes. She had come to appreciate the old ballet mistress's cane now that its wrath fell to someone besides her, and usually to her benefit.

Madame Giry leaned back in her chair thoughtfully, wrathful cane now resting peacefully against her side. "Well, if I remember, you can sing. And quite well. In fact, I seem to remember something about you singing lead in an opera. More than once in fact."

"Yes, and that ended wonderfully for everyone," Christine murmured, crumpling yet another page of ink-splotched names in one hand. Madame Giry opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and handed Christine the next page of names.

Madame Giry sighed heavily. "Not that I don't enjoy watching every girl with half a lung in her chest and less than half a brain in her head waltz across my stage and warble like a chicken. It is not as if we have an opera-house to manage and an opera to open." Antoinette's lip quirked slightly in one corner, and Christine smiled in response. "You are sure you won't consider it? It seems such a waste—"

"There is someone, Antoinette. We must be patient. You know as well as I that talent can dwell in the most unlikely of places." The two women sat in silence a moment, each bristling under a private deluge of unwelcome memories for only a moment before Christine broke the tension, barking authoritatively, "Next!" Madame Giry sighed, taking up her cane once more.

Across the stage, the hairs stood up on the back of Margeurite Giry's neck as the wretched wailing of yet another soon-to-be-rejected diva resonated through the opera chamber. The group of chorus girls practicing under her supervision rippled with stifled giggles. "Focus, girls," she said warmly, catching eyes with the pupil she favored most, Andrea, whose young face split into a wide grin. Andrea was soon to be seventeen, and her exuberant spirit warmed Meg even on her most forlorn days. Meg's smile faded a bit when she reflected that her affection for the chorus girl lay in Andrea's similarity to the girl she had been, cheerful and brash. But since London, Meg had found it difficult to breathe, let alone muster a youthful grin as broad as the one gracing Andrea's face. When she closed her eyes she could feel his arms about her, swinging her gaily across the marble floors of a foreign ballroom. And so, she scarcely closed her eyes at all.

"Mademoiselle Giry!" Andrea laughed, "Do not look so sad! Shall I sing you a song as I dance, so better to distract from the… well, I wouldn't call it singing, would you?" Meg shook her head fondly, caught halfway between reprimand and affirmation. The girls bounding about her voiced their approval. Andrea smiled gaily, her blonde curls yet again escaping the tight bun high on her head. "I assure you, Mademoiselle Giry. Even I can do better than that!" she said, gesturing dismissively towards the auditions. "I shall sing my favorite song, oui?" Meg sighed, relenting.

At center stage, Madame Giry raised her cane, eyeing the newest failure with distaste. She brought it down hard, relishing the startled silence its fall birthed from its latest victim. Christine muttered, "At this rate the floor will be in need of refinishing by the day's end, Antoinette." The girl, face already crumpling, headed for the wings. Christine was raising her quill, poised to yet again dash the dreams of yet another aspiring diva, when a voice brought her hand to pause midair.

_Think of me—_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye. _

_Remember me once in a while,_

_Please promise me you'll try._

The voice was untrained but exuberant, pure as the virgin snow that graced her father's tomb. It pierced the air of the opera house, echoing through its grand chamber. Christine thought she heard the crystal of the newly restored chandelier quiver. The quill tumbled from Christine's hand, splattering ink, as she and Madame Giry turned in disbelief to face Meg's class of chorus girls. The ballerinas stood still, enraptured, staring at a small, blonde-haired dancer at their center. Meg's back was turned to them, but Christine could see a quiver in her shoulders similar to the one she felt in hers.

_When you find_

_That once again you long _

_To take your heart back and be free,_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me._

Christine turned to Madame Giry, smiling.

* * *

The trail had run cold, and Joseph Evans found he could barely muster the energy to care. When he had at last located the infamous train car he had found it empty, though thoroughly ravaged of its finery by some unseen hand. There was little satisfaction to be derived from its discovery. Soon after crossing the border into Russia, Joseph had fallen prey to a vicious fever. It was by sheer dumb luck that this fever had finally forced him to depart the train and seek shelter in a tiny village, its meager population and size rendering it unnamed. It was there that fate awarded him with the train car, dumped unceremoniously beside the newly laid rail, its exterior blanketed in thick snow. He knew it by reputation, and was absolutely without a doubt as to the identity of its last inhabitant. Unfortunately, said inhabitant was nowhere to be seen, and Joseph, succumbing to the wretched illness that shook his vision and stole the sleep from his nights, paid for a room at the only boarding house in town and collapsed upon the bed. Though at first he had put his faith in simple bed rest, after a week of worsening chills and sweats, Joseph was infected with an anxious awareness of his dire situation. The village (if you could call it a village) was quite without a doctor, and though the gruff boarding house keeper brought Joseph modest meals at regular intervals, he did so without comment or question. Joseph could not attribute the man's distant demeanor to language barrier alone, and was beginning to suspect that should he die in the bed he lay, the villagers would do little but bury him, change the sheets, and speak not a word to anyone of his demise. This thought did little to soothe him, and Joseph found he spent his fitful waking hours wracked in regret. Though he had never been a serious man, he found he grew uncharacteristically solemn with the knowledge that he had both failed in his phantom chase, and would likely now fail to ever lay eyes on a particularly pleasing young Frenchwoman ever again. Sometimes the absurdity of it made him laugh; he had done one, as he saw it, noble thing in his whole damned life, and his reward was likely to be a cold deathbed in a colder country, far from home.

The door to his room creaked as it opened, and Joseph turned his head to watch as the stout little innkeeper quietly deposited a plate of bread and thin soup on his bedside table, beside his rather crumpled looking top hat. Joseph cleared his throat, wincing. "Sir, I wonder if you would be so kind as to bring me a slip of paper, and a quill. I'd be much obliged." The innkeeper eyed him without the slightest sign of comprehension, and abruptly left the room, closing the door firm behind him. Joseph closed his eyes. "Damn," he whispered, listening to the departing footsteps in the hall.

The innkeeper paused at the staircase at the other end of the hall, forehead wrinkling as he frowned at the Englishman's door. The man was dying, he knew. He had seen death before; no one departed the train in this particularly remote village unless they were ill, or hiding, or out of money, and sometimes all three. He had grown disturbingly accustomed to the fact that many of those who came to board with him would never leave. This, of course, did not please him. The man in the room at the end of the hall was young, and his eyes, though glazed with fever, were kind. The innkeeper could see his fear, and thought of his own son, stolen from him by a similar sickness at a like age.

Walking down the stairs, shoulders sagging, he wondered whether there was anything to be done for the stranger. The boy had asked him something; he could tell by the inflection of his voice, though his words had made no sense to the man's ears. The innkeeper feared that the boy may have asked him _for_ something, and from his deathbed. Far be it from him to refuse a man's dying request, particularly a man who was scarcely a man at all. The innkeeper believed in little in this world—belief was a dangerous thing—but he found he couldn't ignore this troubling circumstance. The boy would die, yes, but the innkeeper decided that he would grant him this one request, and would risk his life to find out what it was. He was someone's son, even this far from his homeland. Throwing his heavy coat around his shoulders, the man pushed open the boarding house door and walked into the snow.

His feet were soaked by the time he could make out the house's outline, a dark spot near the outskirts of the village. The wind was tearing at his clothes and filling his ears with its eerie howl, but even through the din he could just make out the faintest sound of a piano. The villagers said the music never stopped; that throughout the night and the day, through storm and wind and ice the piano played, haunting the village with its lonesome sound. They said the man was mad. They said he wore a mask. The innkeeper knew this. But, they also said he spoke every language beneath the sun. As he neared the house, adrift in the sea of snow, the innkeeper had the sense that he was doing something inestimably foolish.

* * *

Erik pounded at the keys, aware neither of the passage of time nor the raging blizzard outside of his tiny house. He was scarcely aware of where he was. He had seen the cluster of houses (shacks, really) from the window of his train car, a tiny hamlet hunkered down at the edge of a vast wasteland of snow. He did not know why he chose this place. He hadn't wanted to run anymore, those in pursuit of him be damned. So, he had uncoupled his train car and watched through the tiny window as the train moved off into the snowy landscape, a tiny black snake in a field of white, until it disappeared altogether. His train car rolled to a stop on the edge of the village, and he stepped off the bottom stair into a snowdrift and walked away.

It had been easy enough to find an empty property; the village seemed to be mostly abandoned, years of harsh winters draining the life from it house by house. He took the house as it was, its sad interior empty but for some abandoned furniture, which he quickly turned into more useful firewood. And he bought a piano, the only one in the village, from a poverty-stricken family nearby. None in the family could not play (all those who could had died), and could no longer afford to keep such a lavish thing out of sentiment alone. It was a modest instrument, but once he had painstakingly tuned it he found its lonesome sound appealed to him. And so he played for the first time in an age, for there seemed little else to do, and found that he still could, despite the injuries to his hand in London. Once he began he found he had no desire to stop, and so he didn't. He played until it hurt him, and kept playing still. It pained him less to play than to sleep, when he found his dreams awash with her, wrapped in her, tied to her. At least with the piano he could keep her at arm's length, the phantom of her present but not so damning—not so close—as when he closed his eyes. Sometimes at night the wind against the thin walls of his new home sounded like her voice, and he gave her the piano to sing with, and together they made something like music.

It was different though, this music. Rage was not its fuel, its inspiration. His favored muses in the past, hate, longing, and bitterness, held no inspiration for him any longer.

Still, the villagers avoided the house, he knew. They likely thought him mad. He had been at the outskirts of their lives for but a few weeks, but that had proven long enough to make an impression.

Which is why Erik thought he had imagined it when he first heard the rap against his door. He played on, hardly noticing. Then again, a knock, harder this time—insistent. Erik stopped dead, fingers held above the keys. He paused, waiting, unsure as to whether he had actually heard anything, or if at last the combination of isolation and sleep deprivation had affected his grip on reality. Then, unmistakable, a knock, heavy against the door. Erik felt instinctively for his mask, found it intact, and was at the door in an instant. His constant pursuer, at last come to drag him back to Paris in chains? He threw open the door, and was greeted by a gust of icy wind and a squat, snow-beaten figure. He stared at the little man for a moment, and the little man stared back at him, cheeks frosted with ice. Erik held open the door and said brusquely in Russian, "Well, come in." The man hesitated only a moment before rushing through the doorway, stomping his feet once before crossing the threshold. Erik closed the door against the storm and turned the eye the man, who was glancing anxiously about the room, as a mouse might a lion's den. He cleared his throat, and the innkeeper spun around, startled. Erik noted irritably that the little man was quite obviously staring at his mask, and found his patience waning.

"Come to stare at me have you?" he said lowly, scanning the man's face for understanding. His Russian, while perfectly passable in the cities, was often unclear to the residents of the country, who had their own jargon and pronunciation, not unlike the peasants in France. The man stuttered, but appeared to have understood. His eyes widened noticeably.

"No—no, I am sorry to bother you, sir. But, you see, I have heard you speak languages." The man's accent was thick, but Erik understood well enough, and muttered, "Better than

you, at least."

The man bristled a bit, but continued.

"I run the boarding house, and I've this guest who is unwell. Foreign."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Foreign?"

"Yes. From the isles, I'd say."

"British?"

"Yes. He's dying, see?" The innkeeper eyed the masked man, wary but encouraged by the spark of interest he thought he detected in his piercing eyes. "Wants something, but I've no mind what."

"The Englishman. What does he look like?" Erik asked as casually as he could, turning his back to the innkeeper.

"Barely a man at all. Blonde." The man paused thoughtfully, and said offhand, "Tall black hat."

Erik stiffened. When he turned back to the innkeeper he had paled considerably. His voice was dangerously low when he replied. "Take me to him. Now."

* * *

Joseph Evans opened his eyes to a dark room, silent but for the wind howling against the one small window He could see none of the outside, so thick was the snow on the glass. Despite the chill in the room of the boarding house he was wrapped in sweat soaked sheets, and the hair that had once swept elegantly across his high brow stuck to his forehead in wet tangles.

"Hello, Joseph," a deep, cold voice said in the darkness. Joseph shuddered.

"Death, come at last?" he said with mock cheer, lips cracking painfully as he smiled grimly.

"Something like that," the disembodied voice replied. Strange, Joseph thought, that death should possess a light Parisian accent. His eyes flew open and he tried desperately to focus his vision in the cave-like room, lit only by the snow-coated window. He narrowed his eyes.

And then, there in the darkness, a gleaming half-face, white as the snow outside—whiter even, it seemed. Joseph began to laugh hoarsely, phlegm catching in his throat. Laughter turned to a hacking cough, through which he choked, "My God, of course."

The mask made no reply, its bearer cloaked in the blackness of the room.

"Hello, Erik," Joseph murmured. "Fancy seeing you here."

At that, the mask swept closer. "You've been following me, Mister Evans."

"Somewhat poorly, I had thought," he replied weakly, something like a grin flickering across his drawn face. The boy's silly muttonchops had grown long and tangled, Erik noted, disliking them even more than he had remembered.

"Come to capture me, Joseph?" Erik said softly.

"Not exactly, old chap." Joseph paused, drawing in a wretched breath of cool air before continuing. "Came at the bidding of a lady."

Erik's eyes widened beneath the mask. "What lady?"

"Missus Giry. Lovely girl, she was," Joseph said musingly, eyes fluttering.

"Why would she bid you come?" Erik asked quietly. He was genuinely confused by this turn of events. To find Joseph Evans wasting away in the same rural Russian village was quite enough to process; that Antoinette's daughter had sent him was another matter entirely.

"The Viscountess," Joseph murmured. Erik swept in, now clear to Joseph in the dim light. He had aged, Joseph saw; a broad gray swath cut through his pitch black hair, and the face that looked on him with such intensity showed the whispers of lines about the eyes and mouth where none had been before. Erik leaned over the boy menacingly, his face a war of emotions.

"What about the Vicomtess?" he urged, restraint forgotten. "What about her?" he said, drawing even closer.

"…where you are," Joseph mumbled, eyes unfocused and glazed.

"Where I am?" Erik shook his head in disbelief. "What does she want with where I am? It is she who sent me here, to this solitude," he said to no one, gesturing wildly about the room. "To this nowhere."

"Forgive me, Erik…" Joseph whispered. "It was I who sent them after you." His eyes closed. "I did not see."

"See what?" Erik said, laying a shaking hand on Joseph's shoulder, rousing him. "What didn't you see, Joseph?"

"Love," he slurred.

His shoulder was like fire beneath Erik's gloved hand. Erik stared at the boy, remembering his charge from the innkeeper. He whispered into Joseph's ear, "Mister Evans, I was told you had a request."

Joseph stirred slightly, eyelids barely opening. "Pen and paper," he said. "Must write Meg."

Erik looked at the boy, the silly British boy whose hat he'd always loathed, and felt sympathy move within him, an unfamiliar parasite. That this rich, spoiled clown of a boy should ask with his dying breath to write a girl he barely knew—the Phantom knew something of this kind of sacrifice, this kind of useless, mad wish. Erik stood, still watching as the boy's chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the dirty sheets of the boarding house bed.

"Mister Evans, I propose to do more," he said.

* * *

"Again!" Christine barked.

"Again?" Andrea asked plaintively, hands limp at her sides.

"Andrea, I know that you are weary, but we have but a week before the opera must open." Christine's voice was soft. "I know how tired you must feel, and how tired of me, but trust me when I say that there are more frightening teachers." At that, Andrea smiled. "Wouldn't you rather open an opera than dance in the background of it?"

Andrea sighed. "Yes, Vicomtess."

"Bien. Then, again." Andrea opened her mouth and began to sing, eliciting a small smile from her tutor. The girl had talent, and Christine was pleased by her progress in the weeks since her discovery. She lacked the nervousness that Christine herself had suffered with onstage, rising instead to the challenge with a youthful fervor, and excitement. As Andrea sang the widowed Vicomtess walked the length of the stage, marveling at how small it felt now. Once its breadth had seemed endless. Christine watched Andrea, and couldn't help but ponder as to what a certain former tutor might think of the opera's newest pupil. It seemed so long since Christine herself had sung. But that train of thought delivered her at the foot of a bed long since left behind, and Christine tried hard not to think of it. To think of him, wherever he might be, should he still live.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me waking,_

_Silent and resigned._

_Imagine me,_

_Trying too hard to put you from my mind._

Christine, quite without thinking, issued an abrupt command: "Stop!" Andrea halted, mouth still open and the last echoes of her sweet voice ringing in the opera house. "Your technique, Mademoiselle, may be perfect, but it is in the delivery that you falter," Christine said, trying to sound encouraging. "Listen to the words. You must feel what you're singing, know what it is to long for someone long gone." Andrea nodded, but without comprehension. Christine sighed. "Have you ever lost someone, Andrea?"

At that, Andrea stilled. "My father," she said quietly, face turned to the stage floor.

"Do you think of him?" Christine asked kindly.

"Yes, often."

"Then you must pretend you are singing to your father."

Andrea looked up at her mentor, unsure. "To my father?"

"Yes! Think of him, and sing." Christine smiled encouragingly, gesturing to the stage. Andrea took the place center stage, and continued:

_Recall those days,_

_Look back on all those times-_

_Think of the things we'll never do._

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you._

There was a quaver in the girl's voice, a new depth, and the Vicomtess nodded. "Yes," Christine said. "Bien."


End file.
